


Jeeves and the Flying Cleaver Dilemma

by preux



Series: Bertie and Jeeves: International Men of Mystery [6]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Competent!Bertie, Established Relationship, Food, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preux/pseuds/preux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About a year after coming to their agreement and whatnot, Jeeves and Bertie return to England to see about some spy matters.  Anatole makes some timbales de various things and Stilton Cheesewright gets a bit out of hand.</p><p>Thanks to georgiamagnolia for some lovely beta reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Note on the Text

_Gentle readers,_

_Mr. Wooster has long been an aficionado of M. Anatole’s cooking, particularly, as you may recall, the_ timbale de riz de veau Toulousiane. _His liking for truffles, as well as sweetbreads, was admirably fulfilled by this remarkable dish, which I myself have found delightfully toothsome on more than one occasion.  In the current tale, we may find that…._

“Reg?”

“Yes, love?”

“Are you all right?”

“Love? What is wrong?”

“I just had the most bally distressing dream, Reg.”

“Not the one where you are forced to eat a macaroon by a waitress, love? No?  Was it the one where Mr. Cheesewright is chasing you over the lawn at Brinkley Court trying to make you read _Spindrift?_ Or the one where Honoria Glossop comes upon you in the bath and mocks your…, ahem, rubber duck?”

“Dash it, Reg! I don’t like it when you tease me like that… are you really all right?”

“Bertie, love, you’re crumpling my draft. Whatever has gotten into you?”

“I dreamt you were… had… and…”

“Oh, love, there, there. I am fine. Nothing has happened to me.  Did you eat that pie after I expressly asked you not to?”

“But, Reg, it was so real. Can you stop now and… here…”

“Love, why are you unbuttoning my shirt so frantically?  I assure you, I am…”

“Look! What happened to your chest?”

“Gently, love. Those buttons will take time to replace. My dearest darling, I was injured during the Great War. Don’t you remember how you looked at those scars on the night we first made love together?”

“Yes, of course. That was dashed pleasant, Reg.”

“It was indeed, love.  Your hands feel extraordinarily pleasing today.  Have you gotten a new lotion?”

“Er, would you come snuggle with me?”

“Of course. Oh, that is a truly delicious sensation, love.”

“I never say this enough, but I love you, heart’s delight. You mean more to me than life itself.”

“I know, love, and I feel…. Oh, my Bertie, you’re shaking.”

“And you’re crying.  In a manly way, of course.”

“Indeed, love.  What are you doing now?  Mmm… Ah.  Oh, darling.  That is simply delightful.”

“As I’ve got started, I may as well see what’s biffing along behind the rest of these buttons. Oooh, what is this, Reg? You seem to be standing to attention.  Dashed enticing, I must say, what?”

“Oh, love, that feels just marvelous….”

“Let’s shuck you out of these confining togs and see where else you may like my pleasing hands put on you…”

_My train of thought was delightfully and deliciously interrupted, but suffice it to say that Mr. Wooster’s knowledge as a gourmand may be pressed into service in the course of the present tale. RJ._


	2. And the winner is...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie wins the rubber duck game and Jeeves spends the day wandering about the flat in the altogether... will he ever get dressed again?

**Bertie**

Into each life some rain must fall, as the chap says, and Wooster’s life was no different from a rain barrel filled with pennies from heaven or with a silver lining or somesuch.  In fact, the silver lining of pennies or what-have-you of the Wooster existence shone with a considerable brightness and light, for Jeeves and I had become lovers and friends in addition to being master and man.  On the morning this tale begins, Jeeves and Wooster had disposed themselves in the bath of their Paris flat, at the insistence of said Wooster, and were engaging in matters amorous and companionate.  To wit, we were playing a dashed delightful game with my rubber duck.  Jeeves had invented it because he wanted more of a challenge than throwing cards in a top hat.

The object of the game was to move the duck to one side or the other of the bath without touching it or spilling any water out of the tub. The prize was that the winner chose whatever the loser would wear and the loser would clean up the water from the bathroom floor, and then Jeeves would clean up after the loser’s cleaning. The going was tricky and fraught with dangers. Jeeves usually, in fact always, won, and I had not been able to wear my pink tie in some weeks, but on that particular morning, I sloshed the duck over to the soap dish without spilling any water from the tub.

“Well done, love,” said Jeeves, nuzzling the back of the Wooster neck in a dashed pleasing way and running his fine hands down the front of the willowy corpus just the way I like best. I wriggled like a newt, pleased at his praise and rubbing. “And what will I be wearing today, darling?”

Visions of fruitiness danced in my bean, but then I was gripped by inspiration, or possibly lust. It had been months since we were at our villa, going about the place practically nude for days on end, and a n. Jeeves wandering about is a delightful thing. I missed it. I adopted the tone used to impart better behavior to Roderick Spode. “Nothing, I think, Reg. Well, perhaps your ring. Yes, you may leave that alone, but nothing else.”

Jeeves froze, and I felt a swell of pride at surprising him. The s. of p. was, of course, in addition to a very different type of s. at the thought of him wearing nothing at all about the flat all day.  Scrumptiousness. “Love?”

Wooster had grown more confident and less flighty over the past year and warmed to the idea like a fine mulled wine but without the cinnamon sticks and, er, mullions, no, mulling spices. “I think I’ll cancel my lunch at the club, and you’ll go about your business in the flat, all bare, awaiting my pleasures. I’ll draw the drapes if you’d like some privacy, of course. Are we expecting any deliveries?” I turned to get a look at the Jeevesian dial, which held an expression not unlike that of Stilton Cheesewright when faced with the lady authoress Daphne Dolores Moorehead. We had both begun to flush and firm in all the right places for a bit of delightful union.

I watched Jeeves pause and swallow, then lick his lips before answering, but there was still a bit of a tremor in his voice. We had never played a game like this in the fashionable part of the city, where it would be easier for people to interrupt us. “Just the tailor and the groceries, love.”

“I will handle all contact with the outside world, then.  Of course, I realize it’s the rule of the game, Reg, but if you’d rather I just chose an outlandish outfit for you…”

“Oh, no, love,” he breathed. I could see him ticking through to the last time we’d spent the day undressed, at our villa in Italy where no one would disturb us for days on end if we didn’t like it. Jeeves never felt abashed over that. “I must confess that I never thought through all the ramifications of this little game of ours.  The rubber duck makes it seem so innocent.” I grew puzzled at this, and Jeeves chuckled, tousling my wet hair.  “I will be delighted to go about the flat, as you say ‘all bare,’ and awaiting your pleasure. Would you permit me to wear my apron while I fix our breakfast?”

Breakfast had been a bone of contentment, no, contention, in the Wooster-Jeeves alliance since the W-J a. had formed.  Wooster maintained that all parties of the first and second parts should be able to make the eggs and b. and Jeeves maintained that he preferred to tend to the young master in this regard. Much as I enjoyed being fed with e.s. and b, I had another brain wave and decided that I would look after him for the day as best as I could. “Only if you show me how to cook the fragrant eggs and b. and then let me rub you all over with oil, especially in, erm, those certain areas deserving of extra attention and, ah, whatnot.”

“Love,” he gasped, his private bits suddenly erect and straining in the most charming way. “You’d better dry off and go put on your underthings so I may compose myself.”

But that would not do at all.  A discomposed Jeeves, in fact a d. naked Jeeves, was a dashed lovely and rare thing. He was so beautifully made and I had not yet fully wrapped the bean around the fact that he was mine to love and touch and cherish. “I can wait a bit.” I gentled the needful areas of the Jeevesian corpus, saying tender things while he climaxed, murmuring my name. We waited until Jeeves caught his breath, while I lavished his form with affections and told him that I loved him, then we levered the corpuses from the bath, dried off and got Wooster covered up in some comfy togs while Jeeves remained delightfully, deliciously bare.  I felt rather more boomps-a-daisy than usual, I must say, what?

Looking back, Jeeves seemed rather amused with me that morning, even though he was a bit abashed.  He let me touch his private bits a little, then hovered behind me while I drew the drapes and commenced to show me how to make the fragrant eggs and b. It was much more complicated than tea and toast, which I had mastered some months before, if you did not mind some burned bits on the toast and a few leaves floating in the tea. Jeeves pretends not to see them. Kindly, he let me rest a palm against his lovely, firm bare bottom while he showed me how to whip the eggs before scrambling. He chuckled at me fondly when I got distracted  a few times by how nice his bottom is. It is a bally wonderful b, all round and firm and simply corkingly deliciously smooth and pleasing to stroke and touch and love, and…ahem.  Then I stood before the sputtering b. lest flying grease burn the bare Jeevesian arms and chest.  A few pieces snapped in half when I lifted them from the pan and then crumbled as they met the plate, but Jeeves pretended they were passable.

We made up a tray to eat in the bedroom, so I could have a clear view of the unclothed Jeeves as he lay almost wantonly across the bed, blushing most becomingly under my ardent gaze. He never blushes like this at our villa, and usually in those days he had me undressed before he let me lay him bare. We fed each other bits with our fingers and I stroked and kissed and nuzzled him, all over, until his private bits were eagerly clamouring for additional attention and he had thrown his head back and given himself over to me. I shook like an aspen, taken aback at my ability to do this with him.

“Please love,” he whispered, when I paused for a moment to watch him writhe and arch his back under my ministrations. “Please don’t stop.”

“Very well, Reg,” I said, and took him in my mouth until he came off again, shuddering and crying out. I nearly came undone myself, seeing him like that. Then I held him until he fell asleep, and left him sprawled out atop the covers, while I tended to the dishes and accepted my suits and the groceries and disposed them about the kitchen and bedroom, some even in their rightful places. I had covered Jeeves up with an afghan so he would not get chilled and every few minutes, I went back and covered him back up and looked at him again, feeling a considerable stir in the tweed-covered personal regions at the sight of him.  He was just so bally gorgeous.  I hoped he would not mind about the broken plates. 

I had commenced to practicing with my set of lightweight wooden knives—I was trying to master the art of tossing a few at once in an arc—when I heard a low cough like a discreet and very proper sheep trying to get the attention of an easily startled lamb.

“Love,” Jeeves had entered the kitchen, tousled and still completely uncovered, his manly parts in that state where they cannot decide whether to wake up fully or desist into gentle slumber.

I released the knives prematurely and they flew a bit wild, but only a bit, then I turned and smiled warmly at my friend and lover. “Darling,” I said, moving forward to brush the tears from his cheeks as I always did when I called him something tender. He smiled at me and watched as I ran my fingers over the scars on his chest and kissed them and each of his beautiful nipples, then reached down to brush my hand over his most sensitive areas. “You are so breathtakingly beautiful. Thank-you for letting me see you and touch you like this all day. You are so good to me.”

He tousled my hair and flushed with pleasure, his body responding as I took him in my arms and stroked the smooth skin of his back and bottom, pressing my lips against his nipples again. “Your hands are so soft.” He sort of shook himself, and I swelled inside to think how thoroughly I had discomposed him, how he had let me do this, how much he trusted me. “I’d like to see to you, if I may, love,” he murmured in my ear, pressing a palm against my tented and straining trousers.  “You have pleasured me so generously. You must be very eager for a release by now.”

“Yes, heart’s delight,” I whispered back, wiping the inevitable tears.  “I would enjoy that very, very much.”

 

**Jeeves**

Mr. Wooster has proven to be an incredibly inventive and thorough lover.  It had been precisely one year since the first time we made love, and I had imagined, foolishly as it transpired, that we had visited the high points of such activities, given Mr. Wooster’s persistent innocence around some topics.  I could not have been more incorrect. We had reached a sort of plateau in our lovemaking when he devised the most exhilarating form of erotic pleasure—having me spend the day in the nude in our Paris flat.

He had exhibited that sort of firmness that had at one time characterized his attachment to purple socks and I was powerless to deny him something so simple and endearing.  At first, I was somewhat nonplussed, as he knows my sensitivity to being so exposed, but, as it transpired, my feelings of shyness only added to the level of titillation I felt, particularly in the light of his excessive admiration of my form and repeated expressions of gratitude for allowing him to watch me about my duties in a state of undress. Mr. Wooster’s enjoyment of these pleasures was, as I noted, innocent, and I marveled at the way I instantly agreed to his plan, when I would never have consented to behave in such a way with anyone else. In fact, he managed to recreate the very feelings that had characterized our first tentative investigations of each other on a more intimate basis. I had not anticipated such a rich return for myself when I let him win the rubber duck game that morning.

We were still young men and capable of repeated releases in the course of a single day, a circumstance that Mr. Wooster used greatly to my advantage. An especially rewarding interlude came before dinner, when Mr. Wooster noted that I had become somewhat sweaty and flushed with my exertions about the flat and insisted on bathing me, then drying me off and coating my willing body with fragrant oils, paying special attention to my most intimate regions, and bringing me to my release not once but twice. I went into a sort of trance of contentment and wakened just as he was bringing in a tray of our dinner, which he insisted on feeding me. I had never felt so erotically decadent and sated as I did that day, and that night, when I lay, still naked, pressed against Mr. Wooster’s pajama-clad form, I thought that I had never deserved to experience such a rich feeling of bliss.

 

**Bertie**

It often comes to pass in the Woosterian realm that the most lush days of happy wonderfulness precede some of the most awful terrors imaginable. And so it was that I woke to the blissful sensation of being tenderly snuggled by an entirely nude Jeeves only to find in a few hours that life had turned unpleasant.  Of course, the waking was bally wonderful.  I was cradled in his arms, lemon against his shoulder, which seemed designed as the most fitting place for the Wooster l.

“Reg?”

“Good morning, love,” he said, wriggling about in a most un-Jeevesian way. The heart melted at the dashed adorableness of him. The Wooster digits roamed about under the bedclothes until they encountered the firm, round J. bottom and commenced to stroking. “Ah, love, that is delightful.” He sighed and nestled closer to me making some very endearing gruntled noises. I so rarely saw him like this, so open and frisky and vulnerable.  He must have enjoyed being all bare for the day.

“Reg, you seem positively simmering.” He nuzzled the Wooster pate and grunted softly, rubbing his rapidly hardening private bits against the heliotrope silk pajamas. I stroked his back and his f, r. b., then bent the bean forward to pay some attentions to his throat and chest.  He responded eagerly, nearly writhing with ecstasy. “You are so beautiful,” I gasped, pulling the covers away so I could watch his frisky and wanton behavior. A f. and w. Jeeves is the most delectable of bedmates, not that W. had any basis for comparison except the usual J., which is also quite d. I bent the onion forward again to bestow some nuzzling and other attentions on his personal bits.  I’m not certain what happened next, but suddenly the heliotrope pajama trousers were no longer in evidence and Jeeves was paying some deuced welcome attentions to the Wooster private bits.  I began to thrash about like an erotically-charged eel, and he paused to let me gather myself.

I gave his personal bits a warm kiss and looked down toward my own p. b.s to see Jeeves pressing a w. k. on Wooster in a rather outré location.  “Reg, I say, this is really quite naughty, what?”  He laughed and stroked and licked me thoroughly in the regions indicated, saying tender things while I thrashed about like an e-c e.

“Would you recommend we stop, love?”

“No!”  I clutched at his hips before I realized that he was teasing me.  “Ah, Reg, just for that, I believe you must be teased, quite thoroughly teased.”  He seemed to bally well enjoy it, though.  Then we took each other in our mouths and had the most deuced wonderful time playing and caressing and loving each other.  When I had collapsed, spent and shaking across the bed, wearing only my pajama top, Jeeves gathered me back into his arms and soothed me back to sleep, paying special attention to stroking my bottom. He must have liked my attentions to his b. a great deal, and it was dashed pleasing.

 

**Jeeves**

Mr. Wooster expressed cheerful surprise on waking without his pajamas to find me in a similar state of undress, bearing our breakfast.  “I seem to have struck a chord, Reg,” he said, feeding me a forkful of eggs. “No, no mustn’t cover up.  There, that’s much, much nicer, what?”  He patted me fondly in a most intimate location.

“I must confess that I found yesterday to be absolutely exhilarating, darling,” I replied, accidentally dripping jam on his private parts and licking it off.

Mr. Wooster chuckled then gasped as he hardened under the firm pressure of my tongue. “I so enjoyed taking care of you, Reg, giving you pleasure, doing something for you, letting you rest and checking on you while you slept.  All the things you used to do for me and still do when I let you.” This statement brought me up short, and he continued speaking.  “I just love you so bally much, and I want every good thing for you. I want you to feel every kind of pleasure, and I can’t think of anything nicer than being taken care of by you …” I felt my mouth fall open and tears welled up in my eyes. He was so mild and kind that I often forgot how easy it was to underestimate him, how frequently I fell into the very trap I repeatedly laid for others.  I could never deserve his kind, generous affection. “Oh, heart’s delight, don’t cry.”  He gathered me in his arms.

“I love you too, Bertie. Thank-you for yesterday.”  We lost track of time, and therefore it came as some surprise to both of us when the doorbell sounded.

 


	3. Timbales and Snuggles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stilton Cheesewright's wanna-be boyfriend needs Jeeves's help. Bertie exhibits mad knife skills. Anatole and Seppings scuffle over the phone and someone calls Jeeves 'me boy.' Jeeves gets all wiggly.

**Bertie**

I tumbled into the pajamas and robe and toddled to the door to admit one Wally Fortescue, a MI something-number agent and friend of Jeeves’s.  Also a huge beefy cove and good friend of G. D’Arcy “Stilton” Cheesewright, whom Wooster had regarded as a menace from the earliest days at school. Wally looked like a chap who had just escaped an attempt at spine breaking by a much larger chap after accidentally catching the eye of a beazel—bally well panicked. “Bertie?” he gasped almost before I got the door closed.  “Is the colonel here?  It’s rather urgent.”

Jeeves materialized at my side, looking, well bally well not looking like a valet in his uniform, I must say.  He had trickled out in his own pajamas and dressing gown and slippers, looking very much like a man recently disturbed from a nap.  I was deuced well pipped. “Wally?” The tone of Jeevesian concern was so deep and rummy, I forgot to be pipped in wondering what was so dire that he had revealed us in this way.  Whatever could be going on?

“Colonel!  Thank goodness,” Wally looked close to tears.

“Love,” said Jeeves quietly, exposing us to another spy. I do not think I would have been more blasted annoyed if he had decided to plant a moist and juicy kiss on Stilton’s mouth. Wally’s mouth flapped open as I drew self up in renewed pippedness. Jeeves gave me a look that was equal parts colonel and equal parts lover needing a bally huge favor, the bally hugest favor he could ever ask. “Would you please be so kind as to see if we have anything to offer Wally?  Please?”  I trudged off in high dudgeon, if that is the word I want.  As I made it to the kitchen door, I heard Jeeves say, “Please don’t be anxious, Wally.  I know someone who may be able to help.”

I rustled up some tea and toast and biscuits and bunged them out for Jeeves and Wally and then returned to the kitchen to plate up some fragrant eggs and b.  They were nothing on the Jeevesian e.s. and b., but I was blasted proud of myself, especially when Wally praised my skill.  I had quietly consumed the less attractive b. in the kitchen.

“Mr. Wooster,” said Jeeves, “Please sit.  This is a very serious matter.”  Wally consumed e.s. and b. like an energetic, er, eater, while Jeeves patiently explained that Wally and Stilton had been summoned to England to be trained in a special way by some MI blighter or other. Neither one of them knew what it meant, exactly, but Jeeves had long ago been cautioned by a friend to avoid these invitations, that they were dangerous and harmful.

“But what can we do, Jeeves?”

Jeeves ate his meal thoughtfully and then asked for some time to think.  Wally seemed not to notice when Jeeves shimmered into the master bedroom and began running water.  “How is Stilton?” I asked Wally, not that I really wanted to know, but he had saved my life—twice if you counted the time I had gotten tangled up in that flagpole—and it seemed only polite.

“He is well, Bertie,” said Wally.  He grew pensive, which looks a bit odd on these beefy coves. “It’s been nearly a year since that night in the bistro.”

I started, sending the fork flying.  I could not believe that it was nearly a year since Jeeves and I had come to our understanding, since I had given him my mother’s wedding ring. “That was one pipperino of a kiss, Wally.”

“Do you think he meant it?” There was a certain thingness behind Wally’s tone, a kind of sadness and longing.

“Meant it?”

“The kiss,” said Wally with the t. of s. and l. in full evidence. “I’d like it if he did, but I think he prefers women.”

The thingness oozed about the place sending dark tendrils of emotion over Wooster, like a big, beefy squid squirting out ink in seawater.  I wracked the bean for something comforting to say. “He is a sterling fellow, Wally.  One of a kind, and seems to quite like you. One does not like to pry, of course, but be assured that he has a code, the Code of the Cheesewrights, and he will not break it.”

“He liked the oil you gave me,” said Wally thoughtfully after a few moments. 

I ratcheted up from the chair and biffed to the bedroom, oiling back with a small purse of scented oils. I’d bought them to set by but we could get another set. “Here, Wally. Use them in good health.  You’re not a bad chap for a Cambridge man, not a craven scooter at all, what?  I’m sure you can work things out nicely.”

Wally chuckled when I mentioned his school affiliation.  “I’m only a Cambridge man of a sort, Bertie,” he said. “My father’s a valet, like the Colonel.  He’s known me from when I was a nipper.  Took me under his wing and helped me with the studies. I took a first, Bertie, all because of him.  I can never be grateful enough for all he did for me.”  I’d wondered why Jeeves called Wally, ‘Wally.’  I was pipped again, and my man was coming in for a good well-deserved tongue-lashing of the less pleasant sort.

Jeeves materialized at about this point looking impeccably put together. The Wooster pajama trousers tented.  The fellow was so blasted smooth and efficient.  “Wally,” Wally looked up. “Do you require a refuge while we investigate?  Is Mr. Cheesewright safe?” 

The Wooster lemon was still tentatively wrapping itself around the ‘we’ in the last Jeevesian statement when I heard my name. I started and flailed, sending a napkin into the air.  “Er, right, I was paying attention.”

“Would you be so kind as to show Wally how you are doing with the knives while I go out to make a phone call?”

I looked at Jeeves, resplendent in his afternoon garb and something twisted in my middle.  “No, Jeeves.  We have to come with you.”

“Mr. Wooster…” he began solemnly.

The voice wobbled, just slightly but enough.  “No, we have to.  I can’t explain why, but we must.”

“Very well.”  Jeeves phoned for a cab and then got me bathed and dressed in record time while Wally played with my wooden knives. He was not half bad.  We had time to practice a bit against each other and he spurred me to better performance. Wally was a terrific sport and playmate.  I could see why Stilton liked him.

“Dash it, Wooster! That is a fine skill! Look at that arc! Bally well done!”  I was just opening the mouth to say something self-deprecating when I noticed that Jeeves had shimmered in to spy the perfect arc of knives in the practice wall. He’d had no idea I had practiced so much or gotten so good. I could see it on his dial.

“Five.” There was a certain thingness in his tone that betokened deep affection and pride, the type of feelings that unleashed his most tender and caring treatment. “Most impressive.” Too bad that I was still so bally well pipped. Jeeves could make love while he was angry but I could not. Wally needed to use the washroom, leaving Jeeves and me alone. “Love, I am deeply sorry.  I cannot apologize enough.”

“Not right now you can’t Reg.” The Jeevesian jaw dropped in such dismay that I let him take me in his arms and snuggle me and nuzzle the golden pate. I did it for his sake, and not at all because I dearly needed a s. and an n. on the g.p. to ease my feelings, not even a little bit.  Wooster is often selfless in that magnani-whatist fashion.

“I am so sorry, Bertie, but I could not betray his confidence.”

“But you betrayed mine, Reg.” He squeezed me tighter and I realized that something else was upsetting him.

“Oh, love, he knew the very first night he saw us eating together, just by the look on my face when I spoke to you. Why else do you think I ran away?”  The water stopped in the washroom and we staggered out to the front room.  I had a vague suspicion that we might not see this flat again, that all my things here would be lost so I dashed into the bedroom and stuffed my pink tie in my pocket.

 

**Jeeves**

The situation was dire, more dire than I could say, and the business with the military intelligence presented an added annoyance. Mr. Wooster was angry with me, more angry than he had ever been, and I could not blame him. I had revealed us to a person unknown to him and withheld information for his protection, which he must feel as an added aggravation as it showed him how frequently I failed to view him as an equal.

Thankfully, Wally and Mr. Cheesewright had a refuge in Paris and would not need accommodation in our flat, but we had some difficult business to attend to.  We stopped at a relatively nice hotel. I would have sent Wally home in the cab, but Mr. Wooster insisted that he stay until I was done.

I placed a phone call to Worcestershire. “Brinkley Court, Seppings speaking.”

“Paul?”

“What the deuce are ** _you_** phoning for?!”  I heaved a silent sigh of relief.  I had expected him to slam down the receiver.

“I take it you are in your room?”

“After that fiasco with the Soapy, I do hope this is not another of your hash-ups, me boy.” He was referring to the case of Soapy Sid, a criminal I had failed to apprehend while working for an employer who was less scrupulous and honest than dear Mr. Wooster.  Paul Seppings, who held a superior rank to my own, had been very displeased with me, despite the huge credit he had received in apprehending a ring of dishonest upper class criminals.

I drew myself up, feeling very foolish as he could not see me. I detested being called ‘me boy,’ but Paul Seppings was a close friend of my uncle’s and therefore entitled to certain liberties. “I cannot help Mrs. Gregson’s excitable temper.”

He snorted in disbelief. “How much did you win at the races, eh?” I had won numerous francs, which had come in quite handy.

“You seemed to enjoy the champagne I brought you back.”

This softened Mr. Seppings considerably. “Yes, I did at that. You always were a thoughtful lad.  Did you want me or that bally French blighter?” A sharp cry in the background indicated that M. Anatole was present.  I could imagine the rosy blush suffusing Paul’s face as he realized what I might have thought.

“Wally and Mr. Cheesewright have received an… invitation. What should I do?”

The phone clattered to the ground and M. Anatole grabbed it first in the struggle that ensued. “You protecting that nice young man, Reginald! No, is my turn now for speaking. You stopping to fight with me or no more _timbale de riz de veau toulousiane_ for you.” The struggling ceased. “You bring him here. You must go instead of them. They are too innocent, Reginald.  You have to save them.”  The heart shattered in my breast. 

“How will I protect him?” I gasped.

Anatole’s voice softened. “Do not be afraid. We will helping you.  I will teaching the chef in this next weeks and they will helping you.”

“He is coming to you?”

“Yes. You coming here first. That is all. You go now have some good times before this trouble. I fix it.”  The line went dead.

 

**Bertie**

The arrangements were finally made and not to my satisfaction.  Stilton would be coming with me and Jeeves to Brinkley Court since he was ostenta-, no ostensibly, that’s the monkey, engaged to Florence again.  We would have some great times with him chasing me about the place threatening to twist the willowy form in new and interesting ways. Wally scooted off, but not cravenly, to darken the Stiltonian universe with these, no doubt highly unwelcome, tidings while a chastened-looking Jeeves escorted the young master back to our humble flat. 

“We will have to vacate the flat before we go,” he said, sounding subdued and humble in a way that set the hairs rising on the back of the Wooster neck.

“What is happening?”

“We’ve been invited to go to the Director’s house for special training.  We have nothing to fear from him.” It sounded as though he was reciting a lesson and I thought back to the first time he said that, right after the cove left a violet beret in our first Paris flat.  The morning after Jeeves insisted we not go home in case he knew where we were. The same morning we packed all our things and left and never went back, even to that block, again, unless we were kitted out in our dark green stealth clothes and scaling the walls under cover of darkness.

Usually I let this sort of thing pass, because it seemed to confuse and upset Jeeves when I pointed it out. But today, the Jeevesian corpus quivered like a plucked piano wire. I oozed over and took his hand, rubbing the back with my thumb in a small circle. “Why are you so upset?”

He looked up at me sharply, like he had flipped on some dormant part of the J. brain, and I tucked myself under his chin, pressing up against his warmth as closely as I could. “Because there is so much to fear, love.  Are you still angry with me?”

The heart melted because he looked so bally miserable, but I was reminded of how things went between us in the old days—just over a year ago—and I pressed my advantage while I had it.  He was still so much smarter and stronger. I couldn’t even win the rubber duck game unless he let me. “Can we buy a nice big flat in that other part of the city…the one we both like so much? Can we keep that as our home here and only stay someplace like this from time to time?” I untucked the head to get a gander at his dial.

The Jeevesian mouth opened and closed in kerflummoxedness. “That is what you condition when you are angry with me?  To have a retreat where you do not have to treat me like a servant?  Oh, love, I am so ashamed.” He let go of me, collapsed on the divan and held the bean in his large, capable hands. I ankled over and draped the willowy form over him and he shuddered in relief. “I do not deserve your affectionate regard.”

I adopted a stern tone because I had learned that a tender one made him cry when he felt this guilty and he was bally unsettled. “Well, see that you begin to, Reg.  I am bally well pipped with you.” He chuckled as I nuzzled the back of his neck and the Wooster heart unspooled itself from the thingum of care. “Bally well pipped, I say.” I paused, a fruity idea binging into the old onion. “Will we be disturbed again do you think?”

“Likely not, love.”

“Good.  I won the last round of the rubber duck game, and I insist that you strip down to nothing but your ring this instant.”

He was shocked, but where I would have started, he merely lifted his head. “Love…”

“This bally instant or I’ll do it myself.” His eyes darted to the uncovered windows.  We lived in a fashionable part of town and often bumped in to Londoners of the acquaintance.

“May I draw the drapes first, love?”

“Oh! I’ll do it, but you’d better be undressed and on the bed by the time I go in after you.” He started running water, so I took my time with the d.s and oiled over to the bedroom, the trousers tightening in anticipation. He had sprawled himself out just beautifully, his legs open just the right amount to show all his sensitive areas, exactly the way I liked to see him when we played that I was being masterful. His private bits bobbed in greeting as I oozed in. “Good show, Reg. You look so handsome like this. Now, I am going to be very firm with you, very firm indeed, and you’re to do exactly what I say.” He flushed and blushed and wiggled, yes wiggled, in anticipation. I nearly lost control of myself right there.

“Yes, love.”

“It’s no use blushing, Reg, endearing as it is.”  I ankled to the bed and set my hands high up on his inner thighs, letting my fingers stray into the creases where they met the rest of him.  He pinkened a bit more deeply and the Wooster trousers tented and strained sympathetically as his manly bits stood nicely to attention.  I adjusted his position for the fruitiness to follow.  “Good man, Reg, now just move a bit. Yes, good man.” I bent over to move the low bench that had been moved from the bathroom closer to the bed (he had thought of everything), righted it when I knocked it down, and then sat and made myself comfortable for some leisurely exploration of the most toppingly scrumptious regions of the Jeevesian corpus. “Now close your eyes and relax, Reg. I plan to play with you for a long time, so try to control yourself if you can.” He lifted an eyebrow but his hips wiggled again, just a tiny bit.  He was so bally cute.

Generally, I let things go along at his pace because anything having to do with an unclothed Jeeves is utterly, completely corking in the Wooster books, but that day I wanted to slow down and have a better chance to look at him and see how he took his pleasure when I wasn’t half blinded by my own reactions to him. It was bally, bally fabulous and reminded me how much I loved him and how I had an obligation to protect and cherish him in his vulnerability. He kept up a steady patter of talk at first, but I knew he would lose his breath eventually. “Oh, love, that is so delightful,” he gasped, arching the back and letting out a stream of the most heart-softening little moans as I licked and nuzzled him in the smooth place between his legs. He was so close and I slowed and pulled back and he nearly thrashed, so I pressed up to settle him.

“There, heart’s delight.  Lie as still as you can, Reg,” I told him, pausing and stroking his quivering thighs. He quieted and lay, gasping for breath, his bits straining and ruddy. His hips twitched a little as he tried not to buck and arch. “Would you like to watch for a while, sweetheart?” He flushed and nodded. “Let’s prop you up, then.”  He stacked up the pillows and leaned against them to have a better view of proceedings, and I snuggled him for a bit before I continued.  I continued to treat him tenderly with the lips and tongue until he was just at the brink of release and then gentled him. He whimpered and thrust against my hand, but I was firm. “No, Reg, not yet, if you can help it. Help me get undressed so we can spoon?” Normally I would have felt guilty delaying his pleasure like this but we had brought him to his climax so many times in the previous day.  “Can you speak?”  He shook his head, but he levered himself up and started undoing my buttons at a breathtaking pace, nuzzling me rather energetically as he went. I mussed his hair and petted him. “Please, Reg, let me be firm with you again.” He lay back down obediently, on his side this time, wiggling just a bit in that dashed adorable way as his manly parts bobbed and leaked, and watched while I slicked him with jelly and then lay in front of him, letting him thrust between my thighs while he took me in hand. I waited until I could feel him almost there and pulled away. We had not seen to me very frequently and I was beginning to feel the strain. “Can you finish me first, Reg? Can you…please?”

“Yes, love,” he gasped.  I don’t know how he did it, but he had me spasming in a haze of golden light in moments.  Then he thrust home, whimpering in my ear and saying my name over and over as his body shook and flexed. It took quite a while for him to come back to himself afterward. I wanted to wrap him in my arms and hold him and never let anything bad come near him again.

 

**Jeeves**

I had been Mr. Wooster’s lover for a year before I realized fully how much power I had given him over myself, how instinctively I trusted him with my most vulnerable feelings. It was a highly welcome feeling, that trust, and I, mistakenly, thought that I betrayed it almost every day by the dark secrets I withheld from him.  He showed me otherwise without even realizing it, taking me to my pleasure again and again over the course of two breathtaking days of erotic ecstasy. As I shakingly recovered from an almost explosive orgasm, my mind toyed with the idea of reducing Mr. Wooster to a similar state of helpless satiation. Of course, my mind told me, I had done so several times, and the fierce feelings of protectiveness I felt at the memory of seeing him limp and helpless in my arms was powerful and poignant. I withheld things from Mr. Wooster because otherwise he would not be able to retain his sunny personality and his trust in the world.  And I owed him my love and protection, just as he, quite clearly, believed that he owed me his.

I was just opening my eyes and looking for my dressing gown when Mr. Wooster came in with a tray of dinner. It smelled marvelous. I sat up and let the sheet slip down, leaving me completely unclothed. Mr. Wooster’s trousers strained at the sight.

“I ordered some dinners from that restaurant you like, Reg, the one where you never eat with me just in case. No, no, lie back down and I’ll see to you.”  He brought a robe of softest silk and covered me. I opened my mouth to object before realizing that he had seen to cleaning me while I dozed, a small gesture that made my heart swell in my breast. He had never cared for my body in this way before, at least not while I lay passively, and I felt an almost guilty pleasure in it.

“This is most luxurious, love,” I said as he propped pillows behind me and smoothed my hair and kissed me. “Thank-you.”

Mr. Wooster left and returned with the drink cart, which held more dishes, then showed me what he had ordered. My heart throbbed at his incredible thoughtfulness. “I’m glad you were stirring, or I would have had to wake you. No, no Reg, please. Just lie back and I’ll see to you.” He fed me tenderly until he was satisfied that I should sit up and then we fed each other bits and sampled all the dishes he had selected. When I was feeling somewhat recovered and moved to refill our wineglasses, Mr. Wooster gently tugged the robe and I blushed. “I have a feeling we’ll be playing the duck game again this evening, Reg, and you let me win yesterday, so I must enjoy this while I can.” I reached for him and kissed him, tasting the wine and béarnaise sauce on both our mouths, enjoying the sensation of being completely bare against his clothed body.

“Love, I cannot thank you enough for these last two days.  You are so good to me.”

He kissed my lips and cupped my face in his hand and looked deeply into my eyes. “I love you, Reginald Jeeves, and I wish you the deepest of pleasures, but I am still a bit pipped with you.”

“You are quite right, darling, and I apologize.”

“Have I been firm enough with you, or do you need further, er, ah, whatsits?”

I felt my manly apparatus unfurl. Mr. Wooster looked down and watched this activity with rapt attention, his lips parting in the most loveable way. Any doubts about protecting him from as many evil truths as I could were erased in that moment. “If this afternoon was a sample of your firm dealings, love, I believe I would benefit very much from some additional corrective measures.”

Mr. Wooster managed to wrench his gaze from my erection and met my eyes again. “Will you tend this? And then come back and see to me for the evening just as we used to do before, but all naked, er, like this?”

I felt a warm and affectionate smile beam from my face at him. “Gladly, love. It will be a pleasure to serve you this evening.”

 

**Bertie**

Jeeves is a dashed marvelous lover.  The willowy bean, er, I mean, ah, the Wooster bean was a pleased and hazy sort of mush for much of the next day.  As predicted, Jeeves won the duck game. The bally surprising thing is that he decided we would have a major change in the morning routine. I was required to go about the flat clad only in the pink tie and he refused, outright refused, to put his clothes back on. I could not believe my very great good fortune.

“But dash it, Jeeves, you dislike the pink tie.” He blushed most ruddily and then halting confessed to his feelings on seeing me wear pink. The movements of his private bits rather reinforced his statements, and I was impressed at how all of the various Jeevesian b.s. could be so eloquent together at once.

“It is most inflaming, love, and, I, it is such a struggle to contain myself with you in public as it is.” With some difficulty, I tore my eyes from the activities going on below his waist. I had been feeling rather wriggly and breezy darting about the place so nearly in the altogether, and the sight of him rising to attention had spurred similar developments about the Wooster corpus. 

“Then, blast it, please stop the struggling forthwith, Reg.”

As we lay all tangled up together in a snarl of sheets, feeding each other the leftovers from dinner the night before, I let the onion grow philosophical.  “What animal is it that has the most persistent passions, Reg?  The bunny?”

Jeeves smiled at me and tousled my hair. “I believe it is the hamster, sir.”

I nestled against him and squeezed. “So are we like hamsters?”

“Would you like to be, love?”

“I like to be exactly like this.”

Affections were showered upon me most generously at this juncture. “I love you, Bertie.  You are so very dear.”

“When do we have to meet them?”

“Love?”

“Stilton and Wally.  We have to go scale buildings and tumble about the ground and toss things at each other, I imagine. Just like all those other times?”

Jeeves cupped my face in a firm, capable hand and looked deeply and lovingly into my eyes. “Thank-you for the reminder, love.  You are correct.  I will phone them now.”

“And then we can snuggle a bit?”

I nearly melted under the look of adoration he gave me. “Of course, love.  We could also do some Swedish exercises.”

“Only if I may take off this tie.”

“I’ll spread out the softer mats in case we need them for anything.”

 

**Anatole**

The little chef was half frantic with anxiety as he made _timbale_ after _timbale_ , forcing the staff to taste them, which caused a bit of a scuffle among the boot boys that was quickly sorted out when Mr. Seppings cast a stern eye over the kitchens. Everyone not belonging to the kitchen staff scarpered, and the kitchen maids were sent to town for supplies, given extra pocket money, and instructed to stay away for at least two hours, preferably four.  They could not believe their good fortune.  Usually when Mr. Anatole, as they persisted in calling him, became obsessed with a new dish, they had to work in the staff kitchen for a few days until he calmed down.

“Anatole?”  Seppings sighed as he closed the door.  “It’s no use pretending.  You’re upset about that phone call.”

“And this bad _timbale_.  I need some other thing, but it is no good!”

Seppings sat down and patiently sampled _timbale_ after _timbale._ They were utterly scrumptious, but he understood exactly what Anatole meant. “Can you get some ramps?  Or maybe some chives?”

The little chef kissed Seppings square on the mouth.  “I am loving you!” he screamed.  “That is perfect.  Is it too late to tell those stupid girls?  Meester Anatole indeed.”  He snorted.

“I already did. It’s market day. We just had a delivery, but they will bring back as many fresh vegetables as they can carry. Now, what about that phone call?  It is a bad sign.  That MI20. I heard he tortures his spies to make them more docile.”

“He only wants Reginald.  He will kill that nice Mr. Wooster and then…” Anatole shuddered. 

Seppings rubbed his forehead.  Jeeves was a puzzle and often an annoyance what with all his scheming, but he cared deeply for Mr. Wooster, who was easy to care for and a perennial favorite as well as a constant source of revenue. Seppings had been keeping book on Bertie’s romantic exploits for some years.  The boy’s father had asked them both to keep the lad safe, and they took the responsibility seriously, especially after he had been attacked at that blighted school in his first half term.  Seppings had intercepted the phone call himself and then travelled to London to see how the boy was faring. “Ah. I had not fully understood the case.  Is there something else you have not shared?”

Anatole shrugged, a gesture that evoked in Seppings equal parts irritation and ardor. “I can only doing my best, Paul.  I can only telling what must be told.  The other is so…” he shuddered again and his face went an uncomfortable shade of grey.  Seppings felt his heart melt.

“Stay with me tonight?”

“Merci, mon amour.  Now you are leaving me to fix these.  I will make something for you specially.”

 


	4. Return to Old Blighty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeeves and Bertie must return to England. Jeeves gives Bertie and token of his affection. Will they survive the nights apart at Brinkley Court? 
> 
> Meanwhile, Anatole is perturbed by some spy business and Seppings faces a long night.

**Jeeves**

I woke at dawn to find Mr. Wooster nestled under my chin in the most endearing way.  He is so good and brave, and his insistence on seeing to me and looking after me has only hardened my resolve to shelter and comfort him as much as I am able. My duty should command that I make the best decision for the crown, but I find myself placing the interests of my beloved before this prime directive. In everything, I consider his safety and comfort first. It seems foolish, for Mr. Wooster is a grown man, but I do not like the idea of leaving him without a protector during our espionage activities. Thus, our training was most interesting.

Mr. Cheesewright’s previous experience as a captain of rowing made him a natural leader of the team in this regard.  His training style is both exacting and commanding and, although he did shout a great deal more than strictly necessary, I was relieved to find that he did not become angry when Mr. Wooster flailed and started, fell over, or tangled himself in his own shoelaces.  Mr. Cheesewright simply motioned me to stay beside my young master and see to him as best I could.  Mr. Wooster’s composure instantly improved, and he was able to perform without any interference from me, much as he had on the night Mr. Cheesewright was shot.  Observing this, Mr. Cheesewright motioned me away from Mr. Wooster and took my place.  Mr. Wooster maintained his poise. I believe that Mr. Wooster will be safe as long as he is with Mr. Cheesewright, but I do not ever want to leave my beloved alone with Wally during a mission.  Perhaps it is misguided of me, but it is almost as though I believe Wally would leave Mr. Wooster to fend for himself, or even seek his aid and protection.

Although he has a great deal of difficulty training while being shouted at, Mr. Wooster has developed an amazing series of abilities as a marksman and his dexterity with throwing knives has taken my breath away. I have been certain that he lacks some great part of the basic seriousness and attention that is desirable in a work partner, yet he has developed these skills. Counter to his habits with golfing and darts, which I saw him practice regularly, Mr. Wooster has hidden his progress from me in these additional areas. I do not know where or when he managed to work in so much practice.  My pride in his abilities is mingled with a sting of hurt at the notion that he did not trust, or need, me to help him. It is a puzzle, but as I write this, I find myself wondering if this is not why Mr. Wooster hid his practice from me.

Wally is a solidly-skilled agent and more mature than Mr. Wooster and Mr. Cheesewright.  He appears to be nursing a sort of crush on Mr. Cheesewright of the type that schoolboys outgrow, and I dearly hope it does not harm either of them.  I am beginning to suspect that Mr. Cheesewright is far more emotionally sensitive than he appears and it might hurt him deeply to perceive he is the object of an unrequited love.  Interestingly, Wally did not seem to notice anything amiss in Mr. Wooster’s performance during our training and was instinctively kind and patient with him. I wonder if this politeness makes him more nervous.

An even more distressing thought is that we will have to abandon our life of equality and companionship for a time.  Mr. Wooster will object, I am certain, and thus my heart is breaking because I will have to be firm when I would rather indulge him.  It has been such a luxury these past months to be able to hand myself over to him and trust to his kindness and good nature. He is such a tender and gentle lover. I could weep at the necessity, especially when I consider how every day that I trust to his goodness shows me some deeper part of him.  Despite my early opinion that something could be made of him, I find that the more I see of Mr. Wooster’s heart and mind, the more I am beginning to find that he is a fine man, and I am rapidly coming to the realization that he may well be the finest person I have ever known.

 

**Bertie**

Going back to Old Blighty was rummy, rummier than any homecoming ever ought to be. The bean was full of dashed upsetting thoughts, like those wandering daffodils that biff around in celestial light, but the bad ones.  Jeeves had been most unwelcomely firm as we prepared to depart Paris.  He had agreed to take a flat in an unfashionable part of town where we could live together as two blokes who loved each other, and the heart swelled with happiness until we started packing for our weeks in London and the countryside.

“Sir,” he said, as I tossed the pink tie into a bag.  “Please, allow me to see to this for you.”

“Nonsense, Reg,” I said, sending a pair of truly fruity heliotrope-striped sock garters in after it.  The dial simply glowed like a hart leaping the mountains and bounding the whatnots. “I do love this new flat.”

A soft sound like a sheep on a distant hillside sounded and the tears started into the e.s.  I looked up right sharpish and there was the stuffed frog.  Shameful as it is to admit it, the tears welled up and spilled over as I mouthed, “No. Please.”  I blinked and it was Reg again, gently taking the socks from my hands and easing me into his arms and nuzzling the golden pate. He relaxed, letting me feel the trembling in his manly limbs, and suddenly I was awash in protective feelings toward him.

“Darling, I am so sorry,” he murmured.  “This pains me just as much as it does you, but we must take up these roles again.”

The lemon whirled like a bally shooting star.  We were always so tender with each other at home, and even in the fashionable part of town we had the nights together. How would I manage without his daily friendship and affection? “Will you miss me?” I felt a bally dolt when the words escaped my lips, but his arms tightened and I felt him shudder.

“Oh, darling, my heart is shattering at the thought of lonely I will be without you in my bed.  You are my very heart, love.”

“And you are mine. You are such a bally beautiful, wonderful lover, Reg.” Then his mouth was on mine and we were tearing at each other’s clothes hungrily, as though we had not seen each other in years.  We took each other roughly, passion searing through us and then collapsed together in a drowsy, sweaty heap. “I love you, Reg.  I love you,” I said again and again as I drifted to sleep in his dashed perfect arms.  We woke and stiffened the upper lips and made a plan for our trip.  I hoped I could remember all the secret signals, but I signaled “I love you” whenever I forgot something, which always caused the slightest shimmer of a twinkle behind the Jeevesian eye.

 

No one met us at the boat, and the only person we spoke to was Jarvis, so we had three blessed days of solitude.  The flat was rechristened with loving, tender whatnots on every single surface. It was enthralling yet sad to have to be so careful and quiet as we pleasured each other and took our release.  I will never forget the heady sounds of Jeeves’s suppressed moans of pleasure.  Jeeves pretended I had been taken ill on the train, but after three days we had to knuckle under and go back to our clubs.

“Rummy, what?” I said as Jeeves straightened my tie and kissed my forehead lovingly.

“What is that, love?”  The glow of affection in his eyes had my trousers tenting.

“How we used to hare off to our clubs immediately on returning to the metrop. And now we really want to remain ensconced in the comforts of the hearth instead.”

A Jeevesian hand cupped the back of my head and pulled me forward for a fruity tangle of tongues. “I love you, Bertie.”

“Will you wait in my bed or yours?”

“Love?”

“Where will you be?  You always trickle in before I do and…” I shifted uncomfortably.  “You know, Reg, because the fellows will not have seen me and I…” He tried to hide the hurt when he realized that I might be out late and reel home drunk in the wee hours, that I never said no to such things. Our foreheads met.

“Come to find me in my room if it’s late, love,” he said finally, kissing me and squeezing me in an indulgent, affectionate hug.

“Thank-you for being so kind to me, Reg,” I said humbly and he chuckled at me fondly and tousled the golden locks.

The Drones were much as usual, and thankfully Oofy Prosser had arranged a theater evening the week before, so there was no room for me.  I ankled home before midnight, only slightly tighter than a standard barn owl, to find an empty flat.  Rummy.  I oozed into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, colliding with a bally lumpy object that sounded a great deal like Jeeves awakened suddenly from a sound sleep.

“Jeeves?”  I was simply delighted to see him. “Jeeves!  I am simply delighted to see you!”

He ratcheted himself up and helped me rinse the mouth and peel off the evening dress.  I was feeling rather frisky and swatted away the coral pajamas, so he tucked me into the bed in my underthings and curled up beside me.  I had not been so tight in quite a while and at first I was bally well confused by the whole wheeze. “You are dashed lovely, Jeeves.  Simply toppingly snuggly and all that, what?”

“Thank-you, sir,” he said in a tone dripping with indulgent amusement, as he mussed the g. locks.  “I have long desired to greet you this way.”

“Well it is splendid, Jeeves.  Just corking.”  A thought bunged itself into the sodden bean. “May I investigate your corpus?” He smothered a sort of sighing chuckle as I fumbled with his buttons, then he pulled the willowy form against him and kissed the golden head and lavished me affectionately. I wriggled and grunted softly like a contented grunting kitten, ah, pig, that is, animal, er, thing.

“Perhaps you would like to rest now, love.”

“This is dashed comforting, Jeeves,” I slurred, as he rubbed my back and chuckled at me fondly. “Dashed comforting.”  I looked at him blearily. “I really do like you, Jeeves.  You are most likeable.  A good man. A good friend.”

He beamed at me. “As it is after midnight, I have something for you, love.”  I perked up immediately and made another fumbling swipe for the pajama buttons, but he brushed my hands away and turned on the light.  “No, no, love, not that,” he smiled. Suddenly I was holding a much-battered cardboard box.  “It belonged to my grandfather, and I would like you to have it as a token of my affection and friendship.” It was a watch chain, plain and somewhat worn, and clearly well-loved.  I’d never seen Jeeves wear it, so it was something to remind me of him during our visits, something I could touch any time I wanted, and no one else would know.

The cerulean e.s filled brimful with salty tears and then spilled over. “Oh, my heart’s delight.  This is so… I cannot even say.  Oh, Reg, how I love you.”  Jeeves kissed me fondly on the forehead and then took the watch chain away and turned out the light and snuggled me again while I said, “I love you,” between slurred thanks. We nestled together and drifted to sleep like friends and lovers.  I could not believe how lucky I felt, how preciously beloved.

 

**Anatole**

Anatole grimaced and set to chopping onions with a will.  Seppings hovered just outside the doorway, where a knife was still quivering.

“It will not do to keep frightening the kitchen staff like this, Anatole,” The butler’s voice was gentle and fond.  Anatole looked up, tears streaming down his bloodless face.

“It is bad, Paul, very bad.  That one.  That bad one.  The criss-cross scar one.  He is not dead.  That deWolfe see him.”

Seppings went white and slumped into a chair just inside the doorway. “No.”

Anatole began slicing carrots viciously. “Yes. He come here. Here. He lucky I promise you or I would kill him.”

Memory assailed Seppings. Someone, a slender man, they thought, had attacked Bertie Wooster during his first year at school, leaving him scarred for life and perhaps even unfit to marry. Seppings had thought perhaps the attacker was a spy called deWolfe, but given the mans’ previous habits, such a base attack on a young boy seemed uncharacteristic. The slender man with the criss-cross scar, however, was quite mad and would attack or maim or torture anyone at the behest of the evil soul who ran a secret office of espionage. No one knew how it had come about, but everyone feared this man, the MI20. The scarred man had come to England once before and Seppings had driven him out before Anatole killed him.  “There was still work for him to do, Anatole, work no one else could do.”

Anatole scowled and began chopping celery. He imagined that every rib was the evil MI20, deWolfe, or the scarred man.  Slivers of celery and leaves flew everywhere.  “Is not ‘work.’  Is wrong.”

Seppings stood, seemingly impassive, but seething inside.  The chef was correct.  There had been no real need to save the scarred man so he could continue his horrific activities, no real need except the promise that someone would kill Anatole in a painfully drawn out way if Seppings did not cooperate.  He could cheerfully have dismembered every person who upset Anatole, but he had never revealed why he had complied with the request.  The butler pulled the knife from the doorway and closed the door. It would be a long night.

 

**Jeeves**

I worried about our visit to Brinkley Court.  It had been some time since I had been below stairs and I feared that I would not be able to serve as well as previously. Mr. Seppings would be merciless regarding any slips.  Worse, Mr. Wooster had also been unable sleep on his own.  We had attempted to sleep separately and he had drifted into my room in the wee hours each morning, nestling to sleep against me and protesting when I tried to rise at dawn. My heart melted and I had been unable to deny him the comfort of my presence.

On reaching our destination, I found that very few guests were in evidence.  Sir Roderick Glossop and Lady Glossop were there and expected to remain for some days, and Mr. Cheesewright, who had been invited to meet Lady Florence Craye.  Of course, this would be enough to cause a considerable amount of confusion and consternation.


	5. My handsome one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie and Jeeves visit Brinkley Court. Stilton finds a novel way to make sure Bertie gets enough exercise. Anatole teaches Bertie how to bung a cleaver. Sir Roderick interferes in the sleeping arrangements. Seppings is relieved that Jeeves has found true love.

**Stilton**

G. D’Arcy Cheesewright lay on his bed, enjoying the smell of patchouli oil as his friend and partner, Wally, unkinked the muscles in his shoulders.  He groaned contentedly as Wally worked at a particularly stubborn knot. The train to London was leaving in the morning, and Wally would be staying behind in Paris to look after some business.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Not in a bad way.”

Wally rubbed along the smooth firm muscles, and shifted, then noticed something. “D’Arcy?”

“Mmmm?”

“You’re wriggling a bit.  Are you having any other tension?” ‘Tension’ is what they had agreed to call their intimate activities. D’Arcy flushed a deep ruby red.  Wally wished he could fold his partner in a loving embrace, but he was anxious not to hurt or frighten the younger man and had kept their encounters light and almost businesslike.  Instead, he pressed against D’Arcy’s shoulders. “There’s no shame in it, D’Arcy.”

The two friends saw to each other, each wishing to be more affectionate, neither knowing how to overcome the barrier of reserve.  Afterward, D’Arcy wrapped himself tightly in a blanket and curled around a pillow, imagining the sensation of being held gently.  Tears leaked from beneath his eyelids as he eased himself to sleep. 

Wally waited until D’Arcy started snoring gently, and then smoothed his hair and kissed his forehead. “Bally endearing,” he murmured. Jeeves would have been very surprised to see Wally’s fond expression and the emotion behind it. “I wish I knew how to tell you what you mean to me, D’Arcy.  I wish I knew.”  Wally rested a hand on Stilton’s shoulder, and watched as his friend relaxed into a deep, dreamless slumber.

 

**Bertie**

The e.s ached, simply ached, by the fifth day at Brinkley Court. It had been such a dashed relief and joy to ankle in and be called a blot by the aged r, to hear Uncle Tom call me “me boy” in his absent way, to stroll with Angela in the gardens and to partake of Anatole’s fabulous cooking, while Jeeves shimmered about in the old way, but sleep escaped Wooster. It was rummy, because I spent a great deal of the first afternoon being chased about the grounds alternately by an overly interested Florence eager to discuss ethical theory and an irate Stilton. I should have slept the sleep of the just, but instead I lay awake thinking of how much I had missed the sensation of being watched over by the old Jeeves and how very much more I missed my bally topping lover snuggling up between the sheets. Surprisingly, the s-ing and chit-chat seemed to be the most grievous loss. The willowy limbs simply throbbed with the desire to hold him and the ears longed for the fond, rumbling tones of his bedroom voice. The heart could not bear to reveal my distress when there was nothing Jeeves could do for me, though.

The next morning, Anatole caught me practicing with my knives and became very, very bossy indeed, worse that Roderick Spode going on about the uses of potatoes. The chap positively refused to make me another _timable de riz de veau Toulousiane_ if I did not bung the cutlery about with him.  I was like the glowing thresher worm, or er, whatsit, but in the end the worm caught the early bird, what?  The things that little chef could teach simply spun the bean on its axis.  He’s a bally good thrower, and also showed me how to biff a cleaver into the woodwork with intent and purpose. In the afternoon, Stilton chased me about the grounds again, this time muttering about beazels and oafs and I realized this was intended as training. I noted Jeeves oozing about with a tray, casting a benevolent eye over proceedings. It was dashed pleasant to see him there, simply warmed the cockles and whatnot, until the separation rankled. Stilton treed me, and seemed impressed when I descended without mussing the tweeds. He then clapped me on the back in a friendly way, sending me flying into the underbrush. That night, Aunt Dahlia insisted that I crawl in like the night at Uncle Tom’s study window to retrieve some incriminating paperwork from _Milady’s Boudoir,_ and Wooster crept successfully and came back with the right papers. Aunt Dahlia was not terribly thankful, just gaped at me in disbelief that I’d pulled the thing off without tumbling onto the flagstones or starting a fire. I should have slept like a baby, I was that bally squiffed with exhaustion, but it did not feel right to be in the bed without Jeeves. He had tucked me in tenderly, and kissed me nicely and held my hand until I drifted off, but I woke in the wee hours and pined for him like a dog pining for its beloved master.

The days ran the same way.  I practiced with Anatole and ran about with Stilton and watched for Jeeves and kept the upper lip starched and ironed. The stiff upper lip is all well and good, but by the fifth morning, I couldn’t stick it. I rang for Jeeves just before dawn, hoping he could settle me back to sleep. He trickled in with a tray, locking the door and checking the wardrobes and under the bed and in the bath and out the windows, then drawing the drapes again before he came and sat beside me. The Jeevesian e.s betrayed much turbulent emotion.

“Oh, love,” he said, touching the dark circles beneath the eyes and then rubbing the place between my brows with his bally wonderful thumb. I sat up and tucked myself under his chin and promptly fell asleep against him, rousing only slightly when he eased me back under the covers. He gentled me back into Morpheus’ realm and when the peepers next opened, it was nearly noon and he was dozing in the chair, an improving book dangling in his slack hand. He looked knackered and I wished I could bung him into the bed with me. The sound of him there breathing was enough to soothe, though and I drifted off. Wooster woke again when a knock sounded at the door. Jeeves, looking a bit more daisy fresh, oozed up to answer it and Sir Roderick came in and tutted at us. 

“Mr. Wooster,” said Sir Roderick in a tone of deep concern, “I am deeply concerned. You have appeared increasingly tired these last few days and I have had to insist that Jeeves sit with you this morning. Have you been able to sleep on your own at all since I saw you last year?”

I flushed pinkly when I thought about how we had been sleeping together all naked in a tangle of delicious bare skin since that bally fabulous duck game. We had tried in a halfhearted way to keep to our separate beds at the flat, but the Wooster spirit had been as unwilling as the flesh had been weak. In fact, we’d been sleeping nestled together all bare in the tinier Jeevesian bed. “Er, ah, not as such, no.”

Sir Roderick looked at Jeeves with narrowed peepers. “I imagine that your sleep has been disturbed somewhat as well? I have seen you in the hallways late at night. Have you been checking on him?” Wooster nearly curled up in humiliation as I realized that he had been sneaking up a few hours after I retired to ease me back to sleep.

Jeeves inclined an eyebrow and said that he nothing to complain of and that his duty was to see to my comfort and well-being. The eminent loony doctor and physician to the spies looked at us both gravely and made a series of clucking noises like a bally large chicken in a tweed suit and pince-nez. “It will not do. I cannot possibly recommend that this separation be prolonged for the full three weeks.  You will have to go back to London early, the pair of you,” said Sir Roderick, finally. “You had better both be well rested before you go to that house.  I cannot recommend that you stay there longer than three days. And do not let anything untoward happen there. Do you understand me?” His pince-nez glared accusingly at Jeeves.

Jeeves blenched with some knowledge unknown to young Wooster.  “Yes, Sir Roderick.”

“Good. I’ll tell Dahlia that young Wooster here has been ill and should not be disturbed for another hour or two. You should stay another day or two to make sure he can travel. But get him up and about.”

“Yes, Sir Roderick.”

The l. doctor oiled out, and Jeeves locked the door behind him and came to the bed and took me in his arms. “I love you, Reg. I miss you.” He kissed the top of the golden pate and rubbed the back tenderly with his firm, capable hands. 

“I love you, too, Bertie.”

“Can we chat for a bit like this?” The voice was a bit more plaintive than I liked, and I felt him quiver.

“Oh darling, you are so very precious.” He ought to have been amused with me. After all, we had been able to chat every morning and evening.  Something was terribly wrong. I snugged up close and made a little noise, the kind he liked me to make when I nestled against him. We chatted and he praised me for not tearing my suit in the tree and I told him how much it chuffed up the spirit to see him shimmering about in the old way even if he was the most bally delightful lover and I missed that more. “Would you like me to see to you?” Wooster reddened.

“Ah, er, I…” I stammered. It felt so awfully not preux, and he kissed the forehead. “Not without you, Reg.”

He glowed with pride and affection. “You are so dear, Bertie, such a very fine man.” The words were comforting but the Jeevesian voice quivered.  He was acting absent in that way that frightened me sometimes when he spoke about the Director. I snugged up as closely as I could and made the little soft grunting noises he liked.  He always came back to himself when I needed his protection and comfort.

 

**Jeeves**

Our trip to Brinkley Court was much more unsettling than I expected. Once away from the public area of the house and in his study, Mr. Seppings looked absolutely ghastly.  He gripped my shoulder in an almost affectionate way, which was quite unlike him. “I am so relieved to see the pair of you unharmed.”  His hands shook as he poured himself some whiskey. “Something has happened.  I cannot tell you anything specific. You’ve got to protect him, Reggie.  You must keep him safe.  We promised his father.  Don’t let him out of your sight, and you must check on him during the nights.” Naturally, he would not explain, so I sought out Anatole.

The little chef greeted me warmly. “Ah Reginald!”  He kissed me on both cheeks then shooed the kitchen staff out of his little pantry and seated me with a  plate of various _timbales_.  “Eat!  I must hearing your opinions.”

We discussed the food for some time, and Anatole gave me some recipes for new dishes he thought Mr. Wooster would enjoy.  “He is talented, Reginald.  Very good with the darts.”  My lips quirked. “I know he does not do so good always. You watch when he does not know and you will see.” My expression must have betrayed something.  “He is being very good to you?  You are being very good to him?”  He winked.

“Yes, Anatole.  He is a very good man.”

“Good.  This is good.” The little chef’s face grew grave.  “But something not good has happened.  It is that MI20.” I gasped and the heart sickened within me. “Yes. I do not want for him to hurt your Mr. Wooster. You must keep him safe.”

I unpacked Mr. Wooster’s things and saw to his bath, then I sought out Mr. Cheesewright.

“Jeeves?”

“Mr. Cheesewright.”  The young man grew very serious at my tone.  “Something is amiss.  I must ask you to keep Mr. Wooster in your sight as much as possible.  I have been informed that he may be in some danger.”

“I suppose I could threaten to break his spine and chase him about.  He could use the training and it will keep him out of mischief.”

“If you hurt him, you will have me to answer to.”

“I’ve never hurt him before.”

“That is true.”

Mr. Cheesewright seemed to struggle within himself for a moment. “Thank-you for trusting me with him.”  I nearly fell over in surprise. “I am so inexperienced.  It is an honor. Truly.”

“Thank-you for saving him last year.”   

“I didn’t do that for you.  Florence would never have forgiven me… I’d never have had a chance with her again if I hadn’t.” I grew grave. It seemed that an attachment had been forming with Wally. Did Mr. Cheesewright intend to marry?

“I do not understand you.”

“She loves him in a way, Jeeves, and I could never face her again if I’d let him get shot.”  I felt a small twinge of disappointment for Wally’s sake, but then considered how much safer it would be, for both of them, if they married.  Of course, such relations were currently tolerated, but the tendency was likely to be short-lived.  My heart misgave me when I considered whether it would be safer for my beloved darling as well.

 I found myself summoned to Mr. Seppings’ study later that afternoon.

“Boy-o,” he said and for the first time I heard this insulting mode of address with relief rather than fond annoyance. “Did Anatole tell you all?”

“Enough, I think. Have you cautioned Mr. Cheesewright?”

“He doesn’t know about us. You’ll have to send him back to his partner, or back to New York where they’ll look after him. I can’t tell you any more. It’s not safe for you to know, and it will only worry you. Come back here as soon as you can. Anatole wants to train with Mr. Wooster.”

“Train?”

“He has been learning to throw knives, M. Anatole says.  This was your idea, I assume?” I inclined my head.  “A good notion, a very good notion, in fact.  I do not know how to tell you this forcefully enough, son, but he is in danger, ever-present, constant danger and you must protect him. You must. I promised his father that I would see to it and you must promise me, Reggie. There is so much I cannot tell you, but you must see to him and stay with him however you can.”

My voice shook, and Mr. Seppings moved to lock the door as I stammered a reply, “I…”

“Sit, Reggie.” He handed me a glass of whiskey and poured one for himself. “It is bad.  His father angered a very dangerous man, and Mr. Wooster must never, never know. You are the only one who can really protect him now. I cannot tell you any more about it, but I also cannot say how grateful I am that you happened to be free when he needed a valet. I thought I was doing your uncle a great favor, but now I see the benefit in it.”

My hand shook as I drank. “How bad is it?”

“My god, Reggie, you’ve fallen in love with him?” I felt myself flush, but Seppings smiled. “Oh, Reggie, this is… I cannot say how pleased I am.  This will be the saving of both of you. They cannot get into your mind now.”

I could not even form the words to question him.  My precious darling was in danger.  Whatever was I going to do?

 

**Anatole**

Seppings stole into his room somewhat later than usual.  Sir Roderick had taken him aside and asked that he send someone to protect and watch over Jeeves and Wooster when they returned to London.  Seppings did not bother to ask why they would be returning.  Wooster had looked very peaky and tired and he would be better able to avoid excitement at Berkeley Mansions.

“Paul?”  A groggy voice greeted him.

“Anatole?” Seppings shed his outer clothes and crawled into the bed. “What is it, darling?  The house is so full. It's not safe.”

“This Glossop give me a paper to say you must be watch tonight. He no like to do, he say.  He say you move me to the next room and we open the doors.  Is too dangerous with this scarred man in England.”

Seppings groaned and leaned his head against Anatole’s. “I would like to make love to you, but I am so tired.”

Anatole kissed him fondly.  “It is no matter, my Paul.  I am loving you anyway.”

“Will they be safe?”

“Is Jeeves worrying me. He have the scars.  The scars form that bad Wolf. They mark him. Is bad.”

“No, Anatole. They cannot really harm him now. He is in love. His heart and mind will be safe from them now.”

Anatole pondered this for a moment. “I make love to you Paul. You lay back and enjoying now.”

“Oh darling.”

“My good Paul, my handsome one.”


	6. The Gimlet Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunt Dahlia tries to find out what Bertie has been up to over the past year. Stilton dallies with Florence in the garden and daydreams of Jeeves. Anatole makes some timbales of various sorts while Seppings manages the wine. Seppings scolds the flying cleavers. Jeeves considers the Junior Ganymede book, magenta paisley, and the benefits of snuggling with Bertie in the big bed.

**Bertie**

Jeeves got the willowy frame dressed and I trickled over to see the aged r. as directed by Sir Roderick.  It was a dashed unpleasant affair and lesser men would have crumbled under the strain.

“Young blot,” she said, looking up from the dinner menu.  Anatole winked as he left.

“Aged r.”

As usual, her bugling tones did not mince any words. “What’s Jeeves been doing to you?”

“Whatsit?”

“You disappeared for a year, off doing heaven knows what and now you’re wafting in by stealth to retrieve materials from Tom without a murmur.  This is most unlike you. And you seem unphazed by D’Arcy Cheesewright and Florence chasing you about the place.  I can only imagine that he’s finally managed to mold you.”

Wooster was unable to make heads nor tails of this effusion, which was delivered in strongly carrying tones that jarred considerably on the weakened nerves. “Er, mold?”

“Like a jelly.  Agatha had great hopes of dear Honoria, but I wondered if Jeeves might manage it in the end.  Have you anything to say now?”

The lemon did me proud, rather like patience sitting on a monument, smiling at aunts.  Spending so much time with Jeeves was clearly rubbing off. “You’re looking exquisite in that cardigan, aged a.”  The auntly visage registered flattered surprise before the e.s narrowed.  “Not many could pull off that shade of fawn with such panache.”

In hunting, it does not do to call back the hounds the first time the fox goes into the shrubbery.  The aged r. is nothing if not persistent and bent to pursue the fox that was Wooster with all the hounds at her auntly disposal.  “I need you to write an article for _Milady’s Boudoir_.”

“Of course,” I said expansively and urbanely and without even thinking of a purple sock. “I’ll ask Jeeves to help me.”

“Ha ha!” Aunt D. pounced up in triumph. “You admit you need his help!”

Wooster B drew self up. “Dear Aunt Dahlia, of course, I admit it.  When do you need this effusion?”

 “Whatever are you blathering about?”

 I took out my notebook and silver topped pencil, then picked the pencil back up off the floor and turned the notebook the right way around. “The deadline, aged r.  We must be punctual and whatsit.”  I poised ready to write and then turned the pencil so the lead tip was against the paper. Aunt Dahlia looked at the young Wooster narrowly.  Then she cried havoc and let loose the dogs of thingummy.

“Where did you get that notebook?”

I started and fumbled the notebook and pencil.  “Dash it, Aunt D!  I have only been getting used to this wheeze.” I bent to retrieve the aggrieved items from the oriental.

“What wheeze, Attila?” I scuffed the carpet with a sheepish toe and blushed.  The aged r. pounced. “You’re in love!”  The notebook and pencil went flying and then bounced from the outspread Wooster mitts as I lurched about trying to catch them again. “In love.  And Jeeves has not left you.  Who is it?”

Clearly the truth could not be revealed. Bertram flushed redder than a very embarrassed tomato. “Erm…” I bent to retrieve the writing implements from the quivering carpet.

The aged r. started ticking off fingers and came to a stunning conclusion.  “She’s French!” The bellowing was like a startled mastodon prodded in the hindquarters with a sharp implement by an impudent _Homo thingummy_.

“Ah, erm, ah, whatsit,” gurgled Wooster, beginning to panic. “It’s rather a sensitive situation, Aunt Dahlia. I’m not at liberty and all that.”

This brought the a.r. up short. “If she did not return your affections you’d never be so calmly talking about liberty,” she pondered. I flushed even deeper crimson. “She’s married!”  Aunt D. leapt up from the desk and called for Jeeves in a tone that would have frightened a sabre-toothed cat.

Jeeves materialized at my side.  “How may I assist you, Mrs. Travers?” Bertram yelped and the pencil and notebook took to the air once more before they reappeared in the Jeevesian grip.

“My nephew is in love.” She eyed him narrowly and he managed not to flinch or quiver. 

“Indeed, madam.” He looked very much like a valet who was waiting for more instruction in how to be helpful. He wished me joy.

The aged r. sputtered indignantly. “Indeed, Jeeves.  Who is she?”

Jeeves did the cough like a lamb on a distant hillside.  “Mr. Wooster has not at present seen fit to confide in me any attachments to any lady, Mrs. Travers….”

The auntly visage darkened and she lunged across the desk with a force that could have spurred a horse to leap across the Thames. “Who is she?!”

Once again Jeeves proved that he was braver than aunt, mastodon, or Wooster.  As Wooster, B dove under the settee, Jeeves stood impassive, except for the slightest flicker of an eyebrow.

 “…nor have I observed him in the company of any women to whom he seemed to be attached, madam.”

Seppings had oozed up to close the door as the aged r. was frightening the house maids and Aunt D. caught sight of him.  “Seppings!” Wooster started and flailed, injuring self on the settee. Seppings turned as if he had been mildly surprised.

“Madam?”

“Fetch D’Arcy Cheesewright here at once!”

“Certainly, madam.”

It must have occurred to Aunt Dahlia that the faulty nephew was frightened of mastodons and she adopted a wheedling tone. “And you, come out from under that settee and tell auntie who you are in love with.”

Self popped up, flipping over the settee and stubbing the toe, then hopped around on one foot while Jeeves righted the s.  “Sir?” he indicated the s. again and Wooster took a seat.

“Ah, whatsit?” W. gibbered and grabbed for the notebook and pencil.

“Jeeves, where did he get the notebook and pencil?”

Jeeves developed a pained sort of look, as if he had seen a caterpillar crawling across a mustache. “Madam, I have been forbidden to mention the circumstances that led to the acquisition of the aforementioned items of a graphical nature.”

The gimlet eye of the a. r. swiveled onto the hapless nephew. “Bertie?”

“Erm, Aunt D, you see…”

Mercifully we were interrupted by the sound of a butler clearing his throat. “Yes, Seppings?”

“Mr. Cheesewright.”

“Thank-you, Seppings.”

“You’re welcome, Madam.”

“Shut up, Bertie,” I closed the gob and waited while D’Arcy took in the scene.

“D’Arcy, it has come to my attention that something happened while Bertie was in France.  Does it by any chance have to do with you?”

The Cheesewright visage was a study in consternation, chagrin, and other confused things. I could see the wheels spinning in the vast, pumpkin-like coconut. “Mrs. Travers, we are not permitted to speak about government matters,” he finally managed to say as Wooster blushed redder than a radish.

The aged r. fell into her chair, the usual crushed strawberry tint of the features fading to a pale pink. “You mean to say the boy has gotten a job?”

Jeeves softly cleared his throat and D’Arcy barked a bit and turned it into a cough. Wooster bristled with indignation at this suppressed mirth and disbelief.  Dash it all, I was perfectly competent to do things. “We cannot speak about government matters,” said D’Arcy again.  I could have kissed him, but the e.s narrowed as I noted that Jeeves felt similarly.  The door closed silently as Seppings oozed out, but I heard him clear his throat in a way that suggested he was hiding an amused chuckle.

“Thank-you, D’Arcy.  I’d like to speak with Bertie for a moment.” D’Arcy said what was proper and hied forth, a look of pure relief flashing across the pumpkin-like visage.  Jeeves was just shimmering behind him. “No, Jeeves.”  He looked the question. “He is employed gainfully?”

Jeeves looked as deeply pained as ever he looked in polite company.  He did that thing he does where people roll over and purr, lulled by the soothing Jeevesian presence, but it was much less avail than usual. “Madam, it is not my place to engage in divulgatory behavior without the express permission of my master.”

The gimlet e. was trained on Bertram. “Bertie, tell auntie what is going on, please.”

“Erm, it’s all topping and all that, aged r., but as Stilton said there is no divulging permitted of certain matters that cannot be divulged and er, ah, thingummy.”  The gimlet e did not waver.  “ _Je suis et je reste_ , auntie.”  Still no wavering of the g. e. was evident.  “As the chap said, er, ‘secret and self contained and whatchamacallit as an oyster.’” The g.e. gave way to amused disgust.

“An oyster?  Jeeves? Whatever is he blithering about?”

“I believe it to be a quotation from the inestimable work of Charles Dickens, madam, intended to reinforce the earlier informative communicatory utterance indicating that it is outside the scope of Mr. Wooster’s capacity to divulge the nature or extent of any employment, if any such exists.”

“Have you been reading to him from improving books, Jeeves?”

“Mr. Wooster does occasionally enjoin me to impart such wisdom as he feels necessary based on ascertainments acquired from my imbibings of pedagogical matter.  However, such occurs only upon his specific request, madam.”

“Get out of here the both of you.”

We hied forth.

 

**Stilton**

D’Arcy found himself in a quandary.  Wally had written to him, begging him to stay away from Paris for a few months. Bally upsetting. He had wandered out into the garden and Florence Craye found him staring moodily at some ducks.

“D’Arcy!” she said, attaching herself to his arm.  D’Arcy felt a swooping sensation in his breast.  He had generally been given to understand that in such circumstances the swooping, like unto that of a swallow on the wing, was a thing devoutly to be wished. It had been that way the time he had dallied with Jeeves, which until Wally had been a highlight of D’Arcy’s career. However, he compared this swooping with the sensation he felt when Wally detected a wriggling and he found the current s. to be less than enthralling but not entirely unsatisfactory.  Certainly better than the sensation he had felt with Jeeves. Further, Florence was presently attached to the vicinity of his bicep and appearances had to be maintained.

“Florence, you’re looking well,” said D’Arcy. “How is the writing going?”  Florence spoke at some length while D’Arcy nodded and repeated back snatches of what she had said from time to time.  She suggested that they discuss Spinoza after dinner.

“The moon should be out tonight,” suggested D’Arcy diffidently.

Florence looked at her fiancé directly for a moment.  She recalled the time when Bertie had asked her to go for a moonlit stroll and she had asked him why, and then the time she had slapped D’Arcy silly for trying to kiss her with gently parted lips and a hint of tongue. “It should,” she said warily. “Why would you mention it?”

Unlike Bertie, D’Arcy understood the impulse for framing thought in clear, concise language when dealing with the fairer sex.  He found that it reduced confusion and consternation and other troubling things. “It would make it easier for walking, you know,” said D’Arcy, warming to the topic. “So that I might hear your views without interruption from others.”

Florence took in this information and smiled approvingly. “It should at that, D’Arcy.”

“I’ve been thinking of going to New York,” he offered. “For training again, you know.” He wondered why he kept saying “you know.”

The light in Florence’s eyes dimmed a bit and she felt a slight pang.  If only she had been the type of girl to enter into this moonlit stroll business with enthusiasm and passion, then perhaps she would have suffered fewer of these pangs. “It should be pleasant,” she said limply.

“The city there is much rougher than London, Florence,” he said reproachfully. Florence found herself thinking that he looked like a pumpkin.

“Indeed, D’Arcy.” The tone was icy.  Florence was a beautiful woman, with a profile like one of the sterner and more implacable goddesses and the sternness asserted itself quite freely at this moment, inspiring in young Cheesewright a sort of stirring in the vicinity of the heart. Again, it lacked a certain something he had felt when attending to his partner in espionage, but Florence was present and accounted for, and canoodling with her, while fraught with a certain type of danger, was unlikely to land him in chokey.

D’Arcy fixed her with an earnest, humble look. “Indeed, Florence.  There would be much to learn.”

Florence took in D’Arcy’s look and pulled a slim volume from her pocket.  ‘I have some Spinoza here. Shall I read to you?”  She smiled on him approvingly.

D’Arcy felt a swell in his heart, not an overwhelming melting, but a pleasant enough sensation. It reminded him strongly of the afternoon when he and Jeeves had had their liaison, a feeling that this was a pleasant diversion and perhaps the foundation of a nice friendship, but that there could be something more to come in the future. “Yes, please, Florence.  That would be delightful.”  Like most young men in his set, D’Arcy had little use for philosophy. He listened with half an ear to Florence’s reading and consoled himself that that little poet chap, somethingorother Todd, was in New York and had seemed rather cute when imbibing illegally.

 

**Jeeves**

Mr. Wooster was very happy to return to our flat, and I was equally happy to be away from Brinkley Court.  The chef from the Director’s house had been friendly and well-disposed, but the mere mention of the visit had set my nerves into an uproar.  I had not been able to sleep or eat. Sir Roderick had written something to the Director, and Mr. Wooster and I would not be expected for another month, but every instinct told me to take Mr. Wooster and run away and hide.  Impulsively, I had also strongly advised Mr. Cheesewright to go to New York, where the local law enforcement groups would be happy to protect him. 

The afternoon we arrived home, I settled Mr. Wooster to sleep in my bed, then slipped back into my clothes and began unpacking and setting the flat to rights. A sense of release, even relief, stole over me as I worked and I realized how much I had missed the solitary hours tending to Mr. Wooster’s things and considering my own plans and schemes separately from him.  Eventually, I also realized that my diaries, which I had begun keeping in much more detail since coming to work with Mr. Wooster, contained a great number of observations that would upset and embarrass my lover.  I made a mental note to review them and destroy anything that would unduly hurt his feelings should he have reason to read them.

Then I remembered the Junior Ganymede Club book. Mr. Wooster had been very upset when he understood that we had been keeping a record of his escapades and laughing over them.  Certainly, I had exaggerated when I spoke with my young employer, for I had been scrupulously careful to include nothing that would reflect poorly on my skills as a valet or my ability to control his more unfortunate sartorial impulses without resorting to a species of subterfuge I felt to be rather low. The mere record of his engagements, un-engagements, disengagements, and simultaneous betrothals took up a great deal of space, not to mention his official record of arrests and acquittals. Nevertheless, I had been the laughing stock of the Junior Ganymede Club on more than one occasion and had been unpleasantly surprised to find a magenta paisley tie in my message box on our initial return to London. All thoughts of my diaries fled as I considered how to get those eighteen pages back out of the Junior Ganymede book.

All of Mr. Wooster’s clothing had been replaced in the closet or sorted for mending and laundering when he wandered into the bedroom wearing nothing but my dressing gown. My heart melted when he came straight into my embrace and rested his head on my shoulder. “Reg, please come back to the bed.  I’ve missed you so terribly.”  I kissed him gently, silently vowing to protect him with my last breath.

“Would you be more comfortable here in your own bed, love?”

He tightened his hold on me. “Whatever you like. I just want to be near you right now, Reg.”  I smoothed his golden hair and kissed him as I considered the best course of action.  How I longed for our Paris flat, where we were unlikely to be disturbed.

“Are you hungry, love?”

“Will you bring me some eggs and b?” The plaintive tone pulled my heart strings, but I found myself missing Mr. Wooster’s insistence on helping.  He had reverted to most of his old habits in a very short time after returning to our flat, and I found myself regretting my firm insistence on our return to our old ways.

“If you like, love,” I replied, rubbing his back.

“I want to fix them,” he said.  “I am becoming bally useless again.”

“Anatole said you can throw a cleaver as well as he can, love.”

Listening to the happy flow of his chatter about Anatole, I helped Mr. Wooster find his slippers and dressed him in his pajamas and robe and then accompanied him to the kitchen where he made eggs and bacon, which he burned less than usual, and I made toast and tea. He listened to me speak about my family as we cooked, asking questions and showing a great deal of interest in them, as he had ever since we had come to our understanding. We ate together at the kitchen table and he helped me clean up, only breaking one plate in the process. 

He looked up at me while I applied a plaster to his injured thumb. “Reg?”

“Yes, love?”

“I would like to make sweet, gentle love to you now.”  I felt my face break into a warm smile.

“I would like that very much indeed, love.”

 

**Anatole**

Sir Roderick frowned as he sampled several different timbales.  Anatole hovered anxiously, awaiting his verdict. “I rather like this one with the minced veal, Anatole,” he said after a moment.  “Although this with the fined sliced asparagus is also extremely delicious.” Anatole thanked the doctor warmly. “Will they be able to escape, do you think?”

Anatole shrugged.  “I am not knowing.  Is possible, but maybe they will needing some help.”

Seppings came in with a bottle of wine and poured for the doctor. He nodded.

“Have you seen to it?” asked Sir Roderick, closing his eyes in pleasure at the taste of the rare vintage against the flavors of the timbale de veau.

“Yes, we seeing to it,” said Anatole.  “We having a car and the cook at that house.  I think they can get away, and we will go there if nothing is saying to us in three days.”

“I don’t like it,” said Sir Roderick. “I don’t like this at all. How can we protect Wooster under these conditions?”

Anatole shrugged and made a deep noise in his throat.

“Oh, Jeeves will see to that, Sir Roderick,” said Seppings.  “It’s up to us to look after him now.”

The eminent doctor relaxed visibly. “That is indeed a relief.”  He sipped his wine again.  “Now about that other matter. We must get that scarred man out of England.”  Anatole made a growling noise and embedded a cleaver in the doorframe. “Alive,” said Sir Roderick in a pointed fashion.

Seppings scolded.  “Anatole, I do not know how many times we have to remind you. No flying cleavers in the house.”

“I can only trying my best,” said Anatole sullenly.  The others knew better than to argue with him.  It was not easy to be an assassin ordered not to kill the man who had harmed his best friend.


	7. A spat about spats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeeves and Bertie return to London to gather themselves for a great trial. A surprise visitor sets Anatole's mind at ease. Seppings makes a sudden trip to London to make a delivery. Bertie buys some ill-considered spats. There is snuggling.

**Bertie**

The homestead at Apartment 3A Berkeley Mansions saw much tender, affectionate agreement between Jeeves and Wooster over the next weeks.  For the first few days, a sort of terror oozed out from the Jeevesian form in great waves. I could not bally understand it, and he insisted that I need not worry about it.  I resented this hint that the Wooster bean was not up to the mark of understanding. Naturally, he refused to speak of it, and he reverted to his old professional mask whenever I tried to canvas the subject.  Even cuddling, though clearly much appreciated, was to no avail in really soothing him. The terror lurked about, seething underneath the surface like a cancer in the patient monument.

Cudgel the bean though I might, no bright ideas sparked in the Wooster lemon. All Bertram could do was to be extra soft and affectionate and to give in on a serious sartorial, if that’s the word I want, skirmish.  The scimitars were well up and drawn, and it would have been blasted fun had it not been for the t. oozing from the J. corpus. We had not had a really good, honest set-to about my clothes in the best part of a year, and it was all rather topping, if I must say, to see the old steely glint in Jeeves’s eye as he frostily regarded some new article of fruitiness. Young Bertram had forgotten what a formidable opponent Jeeves could be in the matter of clothing when the duck game was excluded from the equation.

I found a terribly sudden checked ready-to-wear sport coat, which was subjected to stern Jeevesian censure when found smuggled into the closet. It all put a bit more glint back into his e. and a spring into the shimmer, especially when he forced me to shave off the beginnings of a mustache. I pretended to pout for a day or so but let him bring me around with some truly topping bare snuggles. Yummy, if not to say replete with oompussy thingness.  And I managed to convince him to hire a cook and a cleaner to come in twice a week so he could concentrate on his other assignments, like balancing the books and contemplating espionage activities. 

Meanwhile, young Wooster pondered as best as the bean was able to discover whatever could be done to set the vast mind of his erstwhile valet at some sort of rest, or if not to rest, at least to prevent it frantically pacing the corridors at all hours of the day and night. The task seemed futile, and so we went to our clubs and had friends in to dinner and argued a bit over tailor bills and the timing of the daily eggs and b. and generally feigned that all was oozing along just as it should. The performances would have been worthy of Mr. Freddie ‘he’s a riot’ Flowerdew, or perhaps Cyril Bassington Bassington. At least, they were superior to that of Wooster impersonating Gussie Fink Nottle. Somewhat. One hoped.

The young master ankled in at 11 one evening, pleasantly pickled, to find Jeeves just returning from the Junior Ganymede. The willowy limbs became entangled in the silk scarf and Jeeves kindly unwound it and put it away.

“I trust you had a pleasant evening, love?” One of the Jeevesian arms came around the slender form and kisses were bestowed upon Bertram most generously while the opposite hand lovingly caressed the side of the Wooster dial. Jeeves’s chin was slightly raspy and he smelled pleasantly of whiskey, cigar smoke, and a certain indefinable, heady something that was simply himself. Scrumptious. Young B. had never understood why the married gents sometimes longed to go home of an evening, but now he did.  Pleasant as the society of the Drones could be, nothing was quite like coming home to such a lovely companion and bedmate.

The pins swayed gently as the slender form came to rest against the muscular J. corpus. “Yes, Reg, most pleasant, the more so now that I’ve come home to you.  And you? Did the valets and butlers put on the nosebag and carry on frivolously?  Lots of singing and rollicking and whatnot?”

“Thank-you, I passed a very enjoyable evening, love.” A fond glow shone from his dial.

We oozed into the bedchamber and Jeeves started to bung the studs from the shirt. “Are you feeling better, Reg?” I asked, stroking his face with the backs of my fingers and rubbing his nose with my own.

“Love?” he paused, completely nonplussed.

“You seem so much happier tonight.” I wrapped the noodly arms about his neck. “I know we don’t talk about certain things until you’re ready, but you seem as though a weight has lifted.” And the fond, loving smile spread back across his handsome lemon.

“It has. I love you so very much, darling,” he said.  We tangled the tongues a bit and then he stopped and said breathlessly. “You have been very kind about your socks and ties these past few days.” The Jeevesian browns knitted slightly and the e.s. narrowed. “And the mustache. Very cooperative.”

“Erm. Ah. Dash it, Reg, you were in need of cheering.”  His eyes grew very dark.

“Would you like to exchange some affections, love?”

“That would be ripping, Reg.”

The tenderness of the affections that night defy description. It was too touching even for tears, which is going a long way when describing Jeeves and Wooster in those days, when we bally wept at the drop of a heliotrope silk pajama trouser. Suffice it to say that he let me call him “Reggie” for weeks afterward. When the rosy dawn stirred us, we had a very deep heart-to-heart and lied to each other much less than usual about our fears and anxieties.  Then we had a topping cuddle—the kind where we wrapped ourselves up together so we did not quite know where each of us ended and the other one began—and kissed for an hour or so before taking a breather. 

“Reggie?”  I murmured after a few minutes of utter happiness.  He smiled at me lovingly.

“Yes, love?”

“Can I do anything for you besides this?  Anything at all?”  The eyes met and smouldered in a way I had not thought they could, like those fires they say burn underground for eons.

“No, love,” he answered, kissing the golden pate.  “You have no idea how much this means to me, how much your affection fortifies me.”

“Good.  Do we have enough plates left for me to help with breakfast?”

He chuckled in that fond way of his. “Of course, love.”

 

The next morning, we went out to our clubs and Jeeves did the shopping.  I usually took another snifter or two with a pal in the afternoon, but that day I felt somehow that I needed to see Jeeves again sooner, that even though we were being more honest, perhaps we had lied to each other too much.  I ankled toward home and caught sight of Jeeves in the park talking to one of the nannies who had the babies out for some afternoon sun.  He oozed over to each one and talked to them, and played and picked them up.  The look on his coconut arrested the young master.  He never looked that way unless we were unclothed and he was lavishing affections.

I’d always thought Jeeves disliked children, but now I saw how much he loved the little ones, the wee mites, not the horrid sticky creatures who could make opprobrious remarks. Then something else biffed the grey matter inside the swimming lemon. Jeeves wanted one. I could see it from his bean.  I wondered if I could find a way to give him one.

 

**Stilton**

D’Arcy had readied himself for his trip to New York feeling very sore at heart.  He and Florence had quarreled, likely for the last time, and he was setting sail without having seen Wally again. Life confused D’Arcy.  He would have welcomed a home and family, some stability and the responsibility of a household. Jeeves had once described him as having a certain slowness of intellect, but his mind was sound for all that it took him some time to work things through. His uncle had impressed upon him how important it was to succeed in his current assignment, but D’Arcy wondered if he should have stayed at Steeple Bumpleigh and married.      

Jeeves had come to help him pack.

“Mr. Cheesewright.”

“It’s good of you, Jeeves, but I can do this myself.” D’Arcy put a pile of shirts in his trunk, then turned them sideways to fit better.

Jeeves shuddered. “I really must insist.”

D’Arcy suppressed a sigh. “All right.”  He watched as Jeeves repacked all of his shirts.  “Will you show me that again, Jeeves?”

Jeeves’s lips quirked. “Of course,” he said. “You will need to stay away for some months. If you receive another invitation, you must run, run away and hide.”

“That seems a bit cowardly.”

The younger man felt a strange sensation at the look of approval he received, and it suddenly occurred to him that their interlude of physical intimacy in New York had built some sort of real connection, if not friendship, between them. “I assure you it is not at all cowardly.  It is your duty to protect yourself.” Jeeves fitted the box of collars into its place in the trunk. “I have received similar advice myself.  Please believe me.” It would be many years before D’Arcy understood the extent to which his friends had gone to shield him from harm.

Jeeves and Wooster left the next day and D’Arcy had still not come to terms with the advice to run away and hide. He found himself thinking again of marrying a nice girl and having a family of his own.

Then he received a telegram. --D’Arcy. Sorry not to see you.  Write?  --Wally— The large, round face that Florence Craye once likened to a pumpkin gave off a happy glow, and thoughts of marrying a nice girl dimmed.

 

**Anatole**

The situation below stairs at Brinkley Court became very worrisome. In the end, Seppings came with Anatole to see the man—one of the men—called the Wolf.  As it turned out, it was not the scarred man. Anatole’s heart nearly broke when he realized which man it was, Mr. Wooster’s father, thought to be dead all these years and driven out of hiding because he was half-mad with anxiety about his son.  He moved oddly, as though he was in pain. Someone had done something to him.

The tall, slender man looked handsome and elegant, even in his battered suit and scuffed shoes. “There was a key or a book. I gave it to a young lad named Jeeves, the young man they were training to be a spy.” he said.  “During the war.  Your friend, that Georges, brought him to our camp, Anatole and then hid him. Have you found him again?”

Seppings grew grave at these words.  He had not known about this connection and trusted that Jeeves did not know either. And Georges and Anatole had not been friends for many years.  Some bitterness had grown up between them, long before Anatole and Seppings had met.  It would not do to stir these things up.  “He is here.  He is protecting your boy.  You cannot go near him.  He does not know who you are, and he must never know.”  Anatole nodded grimly but did not speak.

The father’s face grew absent.  “My boy.  Is he well?”

“Very well indeed, Mr. Wooster.  Very well.”

“And my boy is safe?”

“Safe enough.” Seppings looked to Anatole, who shrugged. “You should not be here.  You must go back to France.  You must find that man with the criss cross scar.  It is your duty.”

The man looked about absently. “Yes.  I should.  But the boy is safe? He is well?”

“The boy is safe and well.”

“I heard that they hurt him at that school.”  Anatole gasped.  It had been more than a decade since Bertie was in school. “That they hurt him.  I could not go on until I saw him, saw that he was well.”

“He is well from that now,” said Seppings carefully.

“Ah.”  The man looked about him and his face sagged with pain and sorrow. “I… I hate to ask, but I’d like to have a rest, you know.  Just a bit of a rest somewhere safe. Just for a while.”  He adjusted his cuffs and Seppings saw a fading bruise. “Do you think? Could you help me?”

Anatole and Seppings looked at each other for a long time.  Then they looked at the man before them, a man who had faked his own death and given up everything important to him in order to protect his family and country.  “Yes,” said Seppings. “Yes, we can find someplace for you to rest for a month or two where no one will know you. Maybe longer.”

The man’s eyes filled with tears. “Will someone stay with me a while?  I’m half mad, you see, half mad with grief and loneliness. I keep forgetting that my boy is not a lad any longer.  It was that young man, wasn’t it? The one with the clever valet?”

Seppings gave Anatole a look. The chef shrugged. “Yes, he was the one with the clever valet.”

Anatole finally spoke. “I am thinking there is a place in Paris, maybe some friend could come and helping you, a friend retiring last year.”

“No, it is too dangerous for them,” said Seppings.  “I know someone else.”

“Ah,” said the elder Mr. Wooster. “Thank-you.”

Seppings received a very important communication from London the next day.  Mr. Travers gave him three days leave to attend to the business and acquire some rare silver.  No one noticed that the butler met a shabby man on the train and then had dinner with him. The next day in a rather seedy part of the town, no one recognized the stately man in a shabby tweed suit handing a slender man into the care of a very genteel-seeming Frenchman. 

“Mr. Wooster.  Thank-you, it is so good to be seeing you again after these years.” The man smiled in an open and friendly seeming way.  Seppings felt his eyes narrow.  The man, known as Georges, was one of the most dangerous spies in the world. Anatole threw a cleaver whenever his name was mentioned.  Seppings took his leave, hoping the two men did not kill each other.

“Yes, M. Georges.  It has been too long,” said old Mr. Wooster.  “I cannot thank you enough for this incredible kindness.”

A terrible sorrow flooded the Frenchman’s eyes for a moment. “No, my friend.  It is you who are kind to spend this time with me.  Maybe you can tell me how is the chef Anatole.”

“Ah, he is a genius…” Mr. Wooster spoke long in praise of the chef, never remarking on the occasional tears that welled up in Georges’s eyes. No one was meant to know that Anatole and Georges were friends or that Anatole and Seppings were lovers.  Just as no one was meant to know that old Mr. Wooster and Georges were old friends themselves, that Mr. Wooster Sr. had saved Georges from the scarred man more than once. Anatole would learn these things one day, but for now Georges and old Mr. Wooster kept their own counsel. 

They drifted off and Seppings watched them go before he changed his clothes and went to the Junior Ganymede club to meet old friends and tell Reginald Jeeves that the dangerous spy pursuing Bertie Wooster was not in England.

 

**Jeeves**

As I write these reminiscences, I am saddened at the ingrained dishonesty that characterized so much of my early relationship with Mr. Wooster. We knew and trusted in our love and affection for each other, but I withheld information from him almost as a matter of course, and only now do I understand how much of a right he had to feel resentful in those days.  His unfailing generosity and kindness shames me.

The end of what Mr. Wooster has termed “the flying cleaver adventure” only came when we found ourselves embroiled in a terrible struggle against a twisted, murderous man under the protection of the crown.  It would take every ounce of our fortitude to endure a trial of some years duration, but that is another tale, a tale of the darkest hour we faced together before the war.

I met Mr. Seppings for dinner about three weeks before we were due for the invitation, taking D’Arcy Cheesewright’s place and protecting him from what was sure to be irreparable harm.

“Reg.”

“Mr. Seppings.”

“We’ve someone there to protect you.  They’ll nobble the car and you’ll be on your own for a day or two.  Just do your best to keep him safe. And refuse to sleep with him.  Tell him you won’t be one of their bonded inverts.” I felt myself pale. “I can’t tell you everything, but it will buy you some time.  Just do your best.”

“Then what?”

“Run, run away, but don’t hide.  Stay out in plain sight.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It will make some things more difficult, but stay in London and keep to your old ways.  Show you are not afraid and they will not be able to touch you.”

“How will I make him understand?”

“He trusts you. Be worthy of that trust and he will not need to understand as much as you think.  He is not like you.”

We spoke then of indifferent things, and I took a last snifter, using money Mr. Wooster had shared with me that morning. No one thought anything of it because my master and his friends had always been generous with me, had always given me five, ten, or twenty pounds for a job well done, or some favor I had performed.  I pondered my situation, the relatively spacious ‘lair’ in which I had lived, the ample household allowance and luxurious food, the consistent appreciation Mr. Wooster expressed for his creature comforts and his ready forgiveness for the rougher methods I had so freely employed to keep him happy, dress him properly, and even to meet my own ends.  Mr. Wooster was a soft man, and it had always been my aim to keep him soft.

 

A few days later, while I was righting the sitting room, Mr. Wooster broached a subject for which I was wholly unprepared.

“Reg, do you want a baby?”

“Love?”

“A baby.  Bundle of joy. Boompsy-daisy. You know.”

“I do not understand what brought this...”

“I saw you in the park.”  I sat down, suddenly overcome, and he came to me and took my hand.  “If you want, we can find some way, can’t we?”  My hand went to the ring that hung around my neck, the one he had given me when I promised to hook pinkies with him for life, then to my grandfather’s best watch chain, which he wore for ordinary occasions.

“We can’t,” I said finally. “You are right, love.  I do want to, but it will not be safe for the child.”

“But how do you know?”

The world nearly collapsed.  He had no idea. “Love, I promised not to tell you this.  You do know your father was a spy?  He upset someone and…”

For once Mr. Wooster was not slow to understand.  He went absolutely white and I moved closer to put an arm about his waist. “That blighter that hurt me?  The one who beat Stilton?”  I did not understand him at first. “At school…”

“You gave me to believe it was another schoolfellow, love.”

“I didn’t really remember until Stilton and I had that talk about it. Some other fellow found us and that’s the one who hurt me.  He had a bandage on his face.” My heart clenched. “It was bally awful.”  Mr. Wooster paused and considered. “He might come after a nipper, then?”

“I am afraid to risk that, love, but I meant to say something else.”

“Have you been withholding it for some good reason, Reg?”

“Yes, love.”

“Might we continue on then until it becomes needful?” I pulled him into my lap and rubbed his back until his color returned.

“Would you like a whiskey, love?”

“Yes, please.  Do we have any lemon?”

“We do, love.”

“You’ll have some with me?”

“Yes, love.”

“Then teach me to do something useful?”

I gave him a firm squeeze and kissed him.  “I think you need to practice more, love.  If you will be so kind as to wait here?” I left him for a moment and came back with a slim box.  He opened it to find five pearl-handled knives. 

“Oh, Reg,” he gasped.  “They’re beautiful. Thank-you.”

“You should enhance your talents, darling.”

“Thank-you, Reg.”

“Keep them with you at all times from now on. I’ve started altering your jackets to accommodate them.”

 

The next afternoon, Mr. Wooster came back looking extremely pleased with himself. “I’ve gotten some treats for you.”

“Treats, love?”

“Yes, Reg. Treats.” He had kindly purchased me two sets of pajamas, some extra underthings and socks, shirts and collars in the English style. “I didn’t think you had enough for a proper visit, you see, not what we are invited for.  We can’t get your things where I get mine, you said, so I asked Jarvis where he buys his things.” 

“No, love.” I had become very upset with him when he mentioned ordering collars in my size, but the clothier had phoned me to chuckle about his mistake.

Mr. Wooster continued. “You have not been wearing your Paris clothes here, I noticed.”

“As you say, love.”

He turned his cornflower blue eyes up to me and my insides melted. “You see, Reg, I know we must keep up appearances, but I don’t like you feeling shabby.”  He had been horrified the first time he saw the much-mended lining in my regular jacket for indoor use.  It had taken extensive explanation to make it clear than many valets had to economize in this way and that I had to stem the potential for jealousy over my wages and working conditions. It would raise suspicions if I suddenly started dressing in a much better style than usual.

“Love, please.”

“No, no, Reggie. I can see how much we are slipping back to the old ways.”

“Not at all, love.” 

“Dash it, Reggie!  Stop.  It’s taken such an effort for me to understand.  You must recall when I told you that I felt what privations the poor had to endure because I had to put the studs in my own shirt? I never understood that look you gave me, but it was a dashed foolish thing for me to say to you of all people.”

“Indeed, love.”  He had been very proud of himself and I had retaliated by colluding to steal money from him.  Even though he had shown similar tendencies toward dishonesty and I had subsequently reimbursed his household account with my share, I never divulged the truth of the matter to him. I could never bring myself to explain that certain types of pride and shame were a luxury that few could afford.

“But now I can see it.” In fact, I had made it my business that he never see it, but it would not do for him to know that. “It sets you on edge.”

“Not at all, love.”

“It does.  You may think it’s fine now, but soon you’ll be biffing people with golf clubs and breaking vases and shutting cats up in my bedchamber and telling people I’m a loony.”  I opened my mouth to protest and he raised a hand. “No, no, Reg. I know you will not want to, but the urge will overcome you now that we are in the old digs.  The injustice of our situation will begin to rankle. But no one will see your underthings or look too closely at your collars, will they?”

“No, love.”

“So you can know that I have bought you the best you would allow?”

“Thank-you, love.”

“I asked the tailor if there was a way to get you two nicer suits—one for serving and a tweed for travel, nothing too ostentatious. I said I wanted you to show up to better effect, that I hated seeming shabby and wanted the best-looking valet and all that. He’ll be phoning tomorrow with some suggestions. Is that all right?” I thanked him warmly. “Good.  And I’ve got a messenger carrying in a dinner from the Ritz. I pretended I could not decide what I wanted and had them send a few items. If anyone asks, I invited a toothsome filly who stood me up because she heard I was a loony. It won’t be as daisy fresh as if we ate there, but at least we can eat together.”

I closed him in a warm embrace and kissed him.  “Thank-you.  I love you, Bertie.”

Mr. Wooster’s face lit up in excitement. “Really?  How ooja-cum-spiff. I love you too, Reg.” When the dinner arrived, he graciously allowed me to share a plate with Mr. Jarvis, the doorman. I would never believe my great good fortune in attaching such a wonderful gentleman.

 

I would have to remind myself of my good luck when I discovered his new ‘alpine’ style hat and a pair of very flamboyant spats in the closet.  Fortunately, the reminder was augmented when Mr. Wooster wandered into the bedroom, humming cheerfully to himself, and stopped abruptly on seeing the items I was holding in either hand. The guilty look on his face softened me considerably.

“You were so on edge, Reg, and I needed some cheering.”

“Indeed, love?”

“The fellows at the club thought them quite topping.”

I cringed at the thought of the merciless teasing in store for me at the Junior Ganymede club. “Indeed?”

He came to me then and nestled against me closely.  “Don’t be like that, Reggie.  It hurts me so when you are cold and upset.”  I gave a tired sort of sigh and dropped the offending items to put my arms around him as he started to weep into my neck. “You were so frightened and I was so worried.”

“It’s all right, love.  I’m not upset with you.”

“Will we have a nice snuggle?”

“Of course, love, but you must promise me one thing.”

He sniffed and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“You have to be brave from now on.”

“Like at Agincourt?”

“Yes, love, like at Agincourt.”

“All right, may we have that snuggle now?”

“With pleasure, love.”


End file.
